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Boston Public Library 







By a gentleman, we mean not to draw a line that would be invidious between high and low, rank and subordina- 
tion, riches anil poverty. No. The distinction is in the mind. Whoever is open, just, and true ; whoever is of a 
humane and affable demeanor; whoever is honorable in himself, and in his judgment of others, and requires no 
law but his word to make him fulfil an engagement ;— such a man is a f;entleman ;— and such a man may De found 
among the tillers of the earth as well as in the drawing rooms of the high born and the rich. 

De Vkre. 




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Engraved Emblematical Frontispiece. 

Vignette of Dr. Franklin. 

Shakspeare Performing before Queen Elizabeth and her Court, 10 

Saxon Bow and Arrow, 53 

The Archery Meeting, . . . . ' . , . . 55 

The Gamekeeper's Fireside, . . . . . . . 6S 

Costume of the United Bowmen of Philadelphia, , . i 109 
Portrait of Richard Penn Smith, . . . . . . .118 

The Interior of Barrett's Gymnasium, Walnut street, Philadelphia, 163 
The Musical Bore, . . . . . , . . - 174 

The Parallel Bars, 222 

Leaping Bars, .......... 222 

The Wooden Horse, . .223 

The Climbing Stand, ......... 324 

East Front of the Capitol at Washington City, . - . .230 
The Game of Cricket, ........ 277 

A Cape Codder among the Mermaids, ..... 285- 




Arrest, The, - 21 

American War, A Tale of the Late, 37, 71, 124, 

193, 237, 293 

American History, Romance of, 43 

Archery, its Origin and Estimation, . ... 52 
Advice to a Young Gentleman, Notice of . 61 
Academy of Fine Arts, in Philadelphia, Half 

an Hour in, 78 

Arkansas, Letter from a Settler in, .... 85 
Archery, its Implements and Regulations, . 106 

Arrow, The 108 

Pile of The 110 

Nock of The, 110 

Attitude Ill 

Aim, Of Taking, HI 

America, Discovery of in the Tenth Century, 153 
American Flower-Garden Companion, Notice 

of, 168 

American Fruit-Garden Companion, Notice of 168 

Algic Researches, Notice of 173 

Arab, Smg of the 188 

Abbey, A Frenchman's Reflections in West- 
minster, 197 


Brazilian Story, 23 

Brougham's Sketches, Notice of, .... 62 
Bugaboo and ]^ickapoo Campaign, a Tale of, 66 

Barbary, Cruise off, 101 

Before Tripoli, 102 

Bow, The, 106 

Proving the, 107 

Bracer, The 110 

Belt and Tassel, The, 110 

Bow, Drawing the, Ill 

Barber of Pans, Notice of, 113 

Biography of R. P. Smith, 119 

Box, The Infernal, 130, 182 

Burial Place, Meditation in a, 135 

Birds and Flowers, Notice of, 166 

Brideof Fort Edward, Notice of, , . . . 168 

Bore, The Musical 175 

Battles, The Three 179, 226 

Baron Von Biedenfeld,TaIe from the German 

of, 200 

Bars, The Parallel, • . 222 

— — Leaping, 222 

Exercising on the, 323 

Brougham's Opinions, Notice of, 230 

Bird of the West, a Poem 235 

Bereavement, a Poem 276 

Bats, Balls, &c 278 

Bowling Grease, 279 

Bowler," The 280 



Cutting out a Letter of Marque, .... 14 of the Flowers, a Poem, 22 

Cross, The White, 23 

Caspian Sea, Eternal Fire on the Banks of the, 35 

Cousins, The, . . , 37 

Childhood, The Friends of Our, a Poem, . . 91 

Cruise off Barbary 101 

Chapter on Field Sports and Manly Pastimes, 

52,106,161,221,277, 32* 

Concealment, Notice of, 112 

Church's Lament for St. John, 129 

Charles Hartland, Notice of, 169 

Continuation of the Diary of the Times of 

George IV., Notice of, 174 

Climbing and Mounting, ....... 224 

CapitoL at VVashington, 231 

Consoiation, a Poem, 266 

Capture of the Java, 273 

Cricket, The Game of, 277 

Choice of Ground, in Cricket, 279 

Coverpoint, in Cricket, 281 

Childhood, a Poem 281 

Canons of Good Breeding, Notice of, . . . 282 
Cain, a Poera 296 


Drawer, Sweepii:gs from a, . . . . 96, 236 

Dreams, An Opinion on, 105 

Distance for Target Shooting, Hi 

Drawing the Bow, HI 

Defence of Female Education, Notice of, . . 118 

Dying Wife, The, a Poem, 137 

Discovery of America in the Tenth Century, 153 

Doddicombe, Mister Richard, 175 

Dimensions of the Capitol at Washington, . 232 

Death, a Sonnet, 242 

Disposition of the Players, at Cricket, . . . 279 

Damsel of Darien, Notice of, 282 

Disappointment, a Poem, 303 

December, a Poem, 317 


Eliaabethan Stage, 11 

Early History of Old Ironsides 13 

Encounter, The 19 

Earth and Ocean, a Poem, 26 

Elle me Voit, a Poem, 34 

Eternal Fire on the Banks of the Caspian, Ac- 
count of, 35 

Early Martyrs, Lays of, 129 

Exile's Return, a Poem 196 

Exercising on the Bars^ ........ 223 

Exercise by Suspeniion, 223 


East Front of the Capitol, 234 

Essay on the Literary Prospects of America, . 267 
Eastern Fables 207 


For whom is the Meed of thy Love, a Poem, 36 
Francia's Reign of Terror, Notice of, . • . 59 

Fireside, The Gamekeeper's, 63 

Fairyland, a Poem, 70 

Friends of our Childhood, a Poem 91 

Feather, The, . .109 

Field Sports and Manly Pastimes, . 52, 106, 161 

221, 277, 324 
Fall of the House of Usher, ...... 45 

Fanny, Notice of, 164 

Fair Shaker, The, a Poem 181 

Frenchman's Reflections in Westminster Ab- 
bey 197 

French Jew, The, 213 

Flora's Lexicon, Notice of, ...... 229 

Fair Rosamond, Notice of, 230 

Forecastle Yarn, . 243 

Fiddle, The Magic, 243 

Fair Maid of Falaise, 260 

First Love, a Sonnet, 263 

Father Butler, Notice of, « 285 

Fire-side Sonnet, 318 


Gamekeeper's Fireside 63 

Gentleman of the Old School, Notice of . .114 

Gymnastics and Gymnasia, 221 

General Rules for Gymnastic Exercises; . .221 

Gift, The, Notice of, 228 

Geography, Mitchell's, Notice of, ... . 229 
Game of Cricket, 277 


Hope, a Poem, 12 

Homeward Bound, The, a Poem, .... 18 

History, American, Romance of, 43 

History of the Navy of the U. S., Notice of, . 56 
Half an Hour in the Academy of Fine Arts, . 78 

Historical Sketches, Notice of, 166 

Hauling the Rope, ......... 223 

Hyperion, Notice of, 227 

Hamilton King, Notice of, 230 

Heavens, The, 258 

Hypochondriac Rhymings 259 

Ironsides, Log of Old, 13, 101, 138, 179, 272, 300 

Janthe in Heaven, To, a Poem 49 

Isabel, Notice of, 60 

Inderskoi, The Salt Lake of, 92 

Infernal Box, The 130, 182 

Indian Serenade, 284 

Jubilee of the Constitution, Notice of, . . .114 

Killing Time in the Jersiesj ...... 213 



Log of Old Ironsides, Sketches from the, 13, 101 


Lecture on the Study of History, Notice of, . 58 

Love and Gold, a Poem 83 

Letter from a Settler in Arkansas, .... 85 

Lake of Inderskoi, 92 

Levanter, The 101 

Lays of the Early Martyrs, 129 

Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, Notice of, . . 166 

Love and Wealth, 201 

Land Ho ! a Poem, 220 

Leaping Bars, 222 

Leaping with a Pole, 223 

Library, in Capitol, 233 

Life and Death, Sonnets, 242 

Literary Prospects of America, An Essay on 

the, 267 

Letter over Sea, The, a Poem, ..... 271 

Long Stop, at Cricket, 280 

Long Slip, at Cricket, 280 

Leg, at Cricket, 280 

Longfield off, at Cricket, 281 

Longfield on, at Cricket 281 

Literary Souvenir, The, Notice of, . . . . 286 


Morocco, a Peep at, 16 

iManly Pastimes, . 52, 106, 161, 221, 277, 320 
Memoirs of Celebrated Women, Notice of, . 60 
Man that was Used up. The, ..... 66 

Miami Valley, The, . ...... 86,.3l5 

Martyr to his Apostate Judge, ..... 129 

Morning's Meditations in a Burial Place, . . 135 

Misler Richard Doddicombe, 175 

Musical Bore, The 175 

Man about Town, Notice of, 230 

Magic Fiddle, The, 243 

Morella, . . , 264 

Middle Wicket, at Cricket, 281 


New Books, Reviews of, 56,112,164,227,282,327 

JNockoflhe Arrow, in Cricket, 110 

New Orleans after the Battle, 237 

Nan Darrell, Notice of, 286 


Old Ironsides, Log of, 13, 101, 138, 179, 272, 320 

Ocean, The, a Poem, 84 

Opinion on Dreams, An 105 

Of taking Aim, Ill 

Old Bureau, Rummage in, 156 

Ouphe's Love, The, a Poem, 250 


Peep at Morocco, A 16 

Privateer, The, . . 37,71,122,193,237,293 

Pontiac, the Ottawa, .43 

Past and Future, The, a Poem, 77 

Provmg the Bow, 107 

Pile of the Arrow, HO 

Phantasmion, Notice of, 112 

Popular Lectures on Geology, Notice of . .115 
Pocket Lacon, The, Notice of, 115 



Precaution, Notice of, 117 

Practical Lessons in Flower Painting, Notice of, 174 
Portrait of a Lady, To a, a Poem, .... 199 
Preliminary E.xercises, Gymnastic, - ■ 222 


Parallel Bars = ..,.. 222 

Poems of Ossian, Notice of, 228 

Predestination, 309 

Princeps Tibieen. A Resuscitated Joe, . .318 


Hope, : . 12 

The Homeward Bound, 18 

The Tiber, 20 

The Curse of the Flowers 22 

Earth and Ocean, . , - 26 

Elle me Voit, 34 

For whom is the Meed of Thy Love? ... 36 
They call me Cold and Passionless, ... 42 
To lanthe in Heaven, ........ 49 

Spirits of the Dead, ........ 51 

The Songs we used to Love, 65 

Fairyland, 70 

To , 75 

The Past and the Future, 77 

Love and Gold, 83 

The Ocean, ........... 84 

The Friends of our Childhood, ..... 91 

To the River , ......... 99 

A Resuscitated Joe, ........ 100 

Lays of the Early Martyrs, ...... 129 

Church's Lament for St. John, ..... 129 

Martyr to his Apostate Judge, ..... 129 

The Dying Wife, .137 

Silence — a Sonnet, ........ 144 

The Haunted Palace 148 

The Summer Moon, ........ 155 


Quiver, The, 110 

Qualifications of a Good Player, at Cricket, . 278 


Romance of American History, ..... 43 
Reflections in a Country Grave Yard, ... 50 

Things I Love, . 160 

The White Mountain Legend, . . . , . 178 

The Fair Shaker, 181 

Stanzas, 187 

Song of the Arab 188 

Withered Flowers, 192 

The Exile's Return, 196 

To a Portrait of a Lady 199 

Land Ho ! 220 

The Bird of the West, ....... 235 

Life and Death, 242 

The Ouphe's Love, 250 

Hypochondriac Rhymings, 2S9 

Sonnets, 263 

First Love, ........... 263 

Consolation, 266 

The Letter over the Sea, . 271 

Bereavement, ........... 276 

Cain, ..... ........ 296 

Disappointment, . 303 

Yes ! tell me of my Mother, ..... .314 

Decem'oer, ............ 317 

Princeps Tibieen 318 

Fire-side Sonnet, 318 

The Old Love, . 323 

1 To a Portrait of a Beautiful Young Girl, . . 326 

I Random Recollections of a Home Traveller, 97,189 
River , To the, a Poem, ..... 99 

1 Resuscitated Joe, A, ........ 100 

Richard P. Smith, Biography of, .... 119 

Rummage in My Old Bureau, ..... 156 

Reply to the Critics, Notice of, .... . 164 

Richard Doddicombe, Mister, ...... 175 

Running, 223 

I Running down the Trades, ..,,,. 226 


The History of the Navy of the U. S., . • 56 
Lecture on the Study of History, .... 58 
Francia's Reign of Terror. By J. & W.Robinson 59 
Isabel. By H. T. Tuckerraan, ..... 60 
Memoirs of Celebrated Women. By James, 60 

Advice to a Young Gentleman, 61 

A Synopsis of Natural History. By T. Wyatt, 61 
Sketches of Public Characters, &c. ... 62 

Concealment, 112 

Phantasmion, ........... 112 

The Barber of Paris. By Paul De Kock, . 113 
The Jubilee of the Constitution, .... 114 

The Gentleman of the Old School. By James, 114 
Sketches of London. By Grant, . . . .115 

Popular Lectures on Geology, 115 

The Pocket Lacon. By John Taylor, . . . 115 
The Triumphs of Science. By W. Wallace, .116 
Tortesa, the Usurer. By N. P. Willis. • . .117 
Precaution. By Cooper, . ■ • • • .117 

Six Weeks in Fauquier, . . . . . ■ .118 

The White Sulphur Papers, ...... 118 

A Defence of Female Education, .... 118 

Waverly Novels, ......... 164 

Fanny and other Poems, ....... 164 

A Reply to the Critics, ....... 164 

A Voice to Youth, , . 165 

Historical Sketches. By Lord Brougham, . 166 
Letters of Eliza Wilkinson, . , . . . .167 
Birds and Flowers. By Mary Howitt, . .167 
Tales of Shipwrecks. By Thomas Bingley, . 167 
The AEfteriean Flower Garden Companion, . 168 
The American Fruit Garden Companion, . . 168 

The Bride of Fort Edward, 168 

Charles Hartland, . 169 

Solomon Seesaw 169 

Undine 170 

Algic Researches, 173 

The Thugs of India 174 

Continuation of the Diary of the Times of 

George IV 174 

Practical Lessons in Flower Painting, . . . 174 
Hyperion. By Professor Longfellow, . . . 227 
Travels in North America. By C. A. Murray, 227 
The Poems of Ossian, ........ 228 




The Gift, for 1840 228 

A System of Modern Geography, .... 229 
Flora's Lexicon. By C. H. Waterman, . . . 229 

Opinions of Lord Brougham, 230 

Fair Rosamond. By Thomas Miller, . . . 230 
The Man about Town. By C. Webbe, . . 230 
Hamilton King. By the Old Sailor, . . . .230 
Shak.speare and his Friends, ...... 282 

The Canons of Good Breeding 282 

The Damsel of Darien By Simms, .... 283 
Father Butler and the Lough Dearg Pilgrim, 285 

J^an Darrell, 286 

T-He Violet, for 1840 . . . 28G 


Stage, The Elizabethan, 11 

Sketches from the Log of Old Ironsides, 13, 101 
138,179,272, 300 

Spirits of the Dead, a Poem 51 

SoDgs we used to Love, a Poem, .... 65 

Sketch from Life, A, 76 

Settler in Arkansas, Letter from 85 

Salt Lake of Inderskoi, 92 

Sweepings from a Drawer 96,236 

Siring, The, 107 

Stringing the Bow 107 

Sis Weeks in Fauquier, Notice of, . . - .118 

Smith, R. P., Biography of, 119 

Silence, a Sonnet, 144 

Summer Moon, The, a Poem, 1.55 

Shaker, The Fair, a Poem 181 

Sianza 187 

Songof the Arab 188 

System of Modern Geography, Notice of, . . 229 
Sketch from History 260 


The Literary Souvenir, for 1840, .... 286 
Tlie Museum of Religious Knowledge, . . 397 
The Chrisiian Keepsake, for 1840, . . . .327 

The Poet, 328 

Albert de Rosann 328 

Memoirs of his own Time. By Dumas, . . 329 

Blackstone's Commentaries, 329 

Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, . 330 
An Address by Joseph R. Chandkr, . . .330 

The Poets of America 33i 

Nix's Mate, 332 

National Melodies of America, 333 

Wanderings in the World of Literature, . , 334 

Sonnets, 263 

Scorers, at Cricket, 279 

Strikers, at Cricket, ........ 279 

Shakspeare and his Friends, Notice of, . . 282 

Tiber, The, a Poem 20 

They call me Cold and Passionless, a Poem, . 42 

To lanthe in Heaven, a Poem 49 

To , a Poem, 75 

To the River , a Poem 99 

Target, The Ill 

Taking Aim, Ill 

Trmmphsof Science, a Poem, Notice of, . . 116 

Things [ Love, a Poem 160 

To a Portrait of a Lady, a Poem, .... 199 

To M. C, a S.mnet, .' 263 

To the same, a Sonnei, 263 

Taking Two 274 

The Lump of Gold, 305 


The Encounter 19 

The Arrest 21 

The White Cross, a Brazilian Story, ... 23 

The Waste Lands, , 27 

The Privateer. A Tale of the laie American 

War 37,71,122,193,237,280 

Pontiac, the Ottawa. An Indian Tale, . . 43 

The Man that was used up, , 66 

The Miami Valley 86, 315 

The Infernal Box, 130,182 

The Fall of the House of Usher 145 

A Rummage in my old Bureau, 156 


¥sed up. The Man that was 66 

Usher, Fall of the House of 145 

Undine, Notice of. 170 

"Umpires, at Cricket 279, 281 

Yoice to Youth, Notice of, 165 

Violet, The, Notice of, 286 


White Cross, The 23 

Mister Richard Doddicombe 175 

Love and Wealth 200 

William Wilson, 205 

The French Jew, 213 

The Magic Fiddle. A Forecastle Yarn, . . 243 

The Fair Maid of Falaise, 260 

Morella 264 

The Lump of Gold 304 

Predestination. A Moral Record, .... 309 
The Scotchman and the Twa Sarks, . . . 319 
The Conversation of Eiros and Charmion, . . 321 

Waste Lands, The 27 

White Sulphur Papers, Notice of, ... . 118 

Waverly Novels, Notice of, 164 

White Mountain Legend, The, a Poem, . . 178 

Withered Flowers, a Poem, 192 

Westminster Abbey, A Frenchman's Reflec- 
tions in, 197 

William Wilson 205 

Washington, The Capitol at, 231 

West, 1 he Bird of the, a Poem 235 

Wicket ICeeper, at Cricket . 280 


Yes! tell me of my Mother, a Poem, 






JULY, 18 3 9. 




Of Shalispeare'' s Comedy of Love's Lahor's Lost before Qmai Elizabeth. 

The subject of the accompanying plate is a fancy sketch by a celebrated English artist, named 
Buss, representing the performance of Shakspeare's comedy of Love's Labor's Lost, before queen 
Elizabeth and her Court. We believe, from the London papers, that the painter intended to repre- 
sent Shakspeare upon the stage before his august patron, in the performance of Don Adriano de Ar- 
mado, a fantastical Spaniard, a character in the above comedy. But we have no authority that the 
dramatist ever performed in the play in question, although we do not possess the power of contra- 
dicting the assertion. The nation and nature of the character, and the quaint allusion contained in 
its name, were undoubtedly designed as a grateful compliment to her virgin majesty. Shakspeare 
was indubitably a courtier, and spared no means of gratifying the weaknesses of Elizabeth and the 
prejudices of the day. The vilifying twisting of the character of Richard IIL, the mortal enemy of 
the giandfather of the queen, is a convincing evidence in support of our assertion. 

The play of Love's Labor's Lost (so named in the folio of 1623,) is generally supposed to be the 
earliest of Shakspeare's productions. Malone assigns 1591 as the date of the original drama, but 
changed it afterwards, with sufficient reason, to 1594. Chalmers supposes 1592 as the year wherein 
this comedy was written, but gives no satisfactory cause for his preference. The original edition of 
this play is doubtless lost, for the oldest copy extant, dated 1598, is said, in the title page, to be 
" newly corrected and augmented." In 1597, it was represented at Wliitehall palace, before queen 
Elizabeth, by her express desire — we are then to suppose that we possess the copy of the piece as it 
■was " newly corrected and augmented" for the purpose of exhibition before her majesty. 

We have said that there is no autho.ity extant for the assu nption that Shakspeare personated 
Armado, even at the command of her majesty the quean. At the same time, if he played in ^® 



piece, he was likely to select tlie character of the thrasonical Spaniard, inasmuch as the broad hu- 
mors of the other masquers rendered them unavailable to an actor of our poet's calibre, and the parts 
of the dashing and witty courtiers were above his pitch. 

In Ben Jonson's Every Man in his Humor, his name appears attached to Old Knowell; Adam, 
in his own As You Like It, was another of his assumptions. In Seganus, his name appears 
amongst the comedians — although we know that his ghost in Hamlet was one of his best perform- 
ances, and that he occasionally figured in vaiious of his kingly characters, such as the Fourth, Sixth, 
and Eighth Henrys in his own historical plays. 

The last mention of Shakspeare's name as an actor appears in the list of characters attached to 
Ben Jonson's play of Seganus, published in 1603. 

Queen Elizabeth frequently indulged in witnessing dramatic performances, produced at her own 
expense, within her own palace walls. The Cotton MSS. contain various charges made in the ac- 
counts of the Master of the Revels for velvets, silks, cloths of gold, etc., for setting forth the stage 
In the very first year of her reign, there is a notice of the players being stopped in their perform- 
ances in consequence of the objectionable matter which they represented. " The same day at nyghS 
(Christmas) at the quens court, ther was a play afor her grace, the whych the plaers plad shuche 
matter that they wher commandyd to leyff off, and continently the maske cam in dansyng." Ne- 
vertheless, we find on the same authority, that on the twelfth night following, " a skaffold" for the 
play was set up in the hall, and " after play was done ther was a goodly maske, and after, a giett 
bankett that last tyll midnyght," 

The " skaflTold in the hall" sounds rudely to a modern ear, as the chief appliance and means of 
dramatic display in the palatial abode of the queen of England. But the public stage was in its in- 
fancy at the time of Shakspeare's birth, and the conveniences and elegant fittings wherewith the 
drama of the present day is graced, were unknown to the most ardent well-wisher of the stage in 
the early days of Elizabeth's reign. Chalmers observes " that what Augustus said of Rome may be 
remarked of Elizabeth and the stage ; he found it brick and he left it marble." At her accession in 
1558, no regular theatre had been established, and the players of that period, even in the capital, 
were compelled to have recourse to the yards of great inns, as the most commodious places which 
they could obtain for the representation of their pieces. These being surrounded by open stages and 
galleries, and possessing hkewise numerous private apartments and recesses, from which the gen- 
teeler part of the audience might become spectators at their ease, while the central space held a tem~ 
porary stage, uncovered m fine weather, and protected by an awning in bad, were not ill calculated 
for the purposes of scenic exhibition, and most undoubtedly gave rise to the form and construction 
adopted in the erection of the licensed theatres. 

In consequence of Elizabeth's patronage, the drama rapidly assumed an important stand. A re- 
gular play-house was built in the Blackfriars in 1570, and in 1574, Burbage's regular company of 
players was established by royal license. Before the sixteenth century expired, fouiteen distinct 
companies of players exhilirated the golden days of good queen Bess, Shakspeare's name appearing 
on the list enrolled by lord Warwick and the lord Chamberlain. Theatres, of course, proportionately 
increased ; and during the time that Shakspeare immortalized the stage, not less than seven of these 
structures, of established popularity, were in existence, with various others of ephemeral notoriety. 



Bright harbinger of bliss, whence dost thou 

Are the green gem'd caves of the deep thy home? 
Dost thou list to the roar old ocean rings 
When the storm is out on its mad'ning wings ? 

Is thy birth place where the flow'rets raise 
Their glowing cups to the svm's warm blaze 1 
Or hath the glittering dew-drop been 
Around ihy home with ils diamond sheen T 

Or the Bunny cloud, as it floats away 
111 dreamy beauty, may it bid thee slay. 

And make thy home in its shadowy hall. 
When its banner is out on the blue sky's wall? 

My home, my home — oh ! it may not be 
In the coral caves of the deep, dr rk sea ; 
Or where the flowers, in their robes of light. 
Are gleaming on the enraptured sight. 

Nor the floating cloud, nor the dew diop's iay,1 
Though their loveliness well might bid me stay; 
But my home both beauty and darkness share — ■ 
In the heart of man, 'tis there, it is there. 
Virgiuia, May !'>, 1239. XARIFA. 




Your gloiious standard launch againj 
To meet another foe ! — Camp. 


The frigate Constitution has a deathless fame. There is a charm in her simple name that arrests 
the eye, and rivets the attention of the cursory readei. Old Ironsides! Why the hare mention of 
this sobriquet carries us back to the days of Nicholson and Talbot, to the actions with the Guerriere, 
the Java, and the Cyane and the Levant; and we fancy that we hear the roar of her cannon, the 
blast of her bugle, her cry of enthusiasm as she went into battle, and her loud huzza as she came 
out victoriously ; — before us, a Hull, a Bainbridge, and a Stewart appear, together with a host of 
other choice spirits, both officers and men, who trod her blood-stained decks, and shared her impe- 
rishable glory. Her picture is in almost every dwelling ; she marks the covers of toy books and 
paper reams, and hangs over the door of the seaman's rendezvous. The backwoodsman, in his log 
cabin amid the western forest, has counted her guns, and puzzled over her ropes. Every nation un- 
der heaven has seen her; and her deeds have been the talk of the civilized world. Tiuly, she is 
the lucky ship of our navy ! the pride of every patriot, and the boast of every American citizen ; 
and, sooner than surrender her to an enemy, every son of this vast republic should feel willing to 
go down with her to the blue depths of ocean with her drums beating and colors flying, and hear 
with pleasure the thunder of the scowling wave as it closes over her " pennon, spar, and sail." 

It is usual when men of mighty genius, of gallant bearing, of holy zeal, and of noble ancestry, ap- 
pear on this mundane sphere, for some contemporary to give a minute account of their lives and ac- 
tions ; and so far is the custom carried at the present day, that the curtain of domestic life is clewed up, 
and we are shown the mysteries behind the scenes. Will it be considered strange, then, if one shall 
■write a series of sketches of the deeds of the gallant Constitution 1 Surely, if each Httle great man 
has his Boswell, Old Ironsides shall have her trumpeter ! 

In the following pages, fact will be blended with fancy in such a manner as not to murder truth, 
and the author will endeavor to twine for himself a wreath from the inexhaustible laurel that now 
blooms from the stump of her keel, and hangs around her frame. Startling incidents from each 
cruize will be taken from authentic sources, and what has been omitted by the pen of history, will 
be added hy that of memory. In many instances, the details of others will be copied, taking care 
never to do so, without making proper acknowledgment in the notes at the bottom of the page. 
Having trod the deck of this noble frigate, and heard the piping of the gale through her rigging, and 
the thunder of her cannon above the shifting valleys of ocean, the author feels confident that he shali 
he able to serve up the dear old ship like a skilful cook, in a hundred different ways, and unfold 
many a deed of high and noble daring. 


Tlie frigate Constitution was laid down at Boston, Mass., under an act of Congress, approved 
March 27lh, 1794. She was modelled by Joshua Humphreys, Esq., of Philndelphia, — the father of 
the present talented Chief Naval Constructor, — who likewise modelled the frigates President, Uni- 
ted States, Chesapeake, Constellation, and Congress. She was rated a forty-four gun ship, but like 
all other rated ships, both English and American, she carried more guns than were named. She 
had thirty port-holes on the gun deck, and twenty-four on the spar deck, and her number of service* 
able cannon was fifty-four. She carries that number now. 

14 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

On the 30th of September, 1797, she ghded into her natural element amid the shouts of thousands 
of spectators, who had collected to witness the novel sight, and had she not stuck on the ways at an 
earlier period, she would have been the first vessel launched under the new organization of the navy. 
As it was, she was baptized with blood — a ship carpenter, by the name of Champney, having been 
killed by the falling of one of her shoars. 

On the 20th July, 1798, she got underway for the first time, under the command of Captain Sa- 
muel Nicholson, a gallant officer ; and in August cruized with four revenue cutters along the coast 
of the United States, to the southward of Cape Heniy. At the close of the year '98, while under 
the command of Captain Nicholson, she was attached to the West India squadron, commanded by 
Commodore Barry. In 1799, she became the flag ship of Commodore Talbot, on the St, Domingo 
station, and here she commenced her gallant career. 

Having thus brought the old ship down to the commencement of the present century, we leave 
the reader to learn her farther history from the following sketches and anecdotes. 


Of all services of danger which a naval officer has to perform during a time of war, and there are 
^uany, the task of cutting out an armed vessel from under the guns of an enemy's foit, and bringing 
-her out of the harbor in safety, is considered the most desperate. Coolness and courage must travel 
hand in hand there; and the successful commander of such an expedition, under the most favorable 
circumstances, must consider himself well off if he earns his laurels at the cost of blood. 

The sun was slowly descending behind the blue peaks of San Domingo, when an American -fri- 
gate came in sight of the village of Port Platte, situated at the head of a small liaibor on tire south 
■side of the island, and, furling her courses, hove to, for tlie pui-pose of reconnoitering. After scan- 
iiing narrowly the little anchorage, the frigate put about, and, setting her courses, was soon lost amid 
the shades of night. The inhabitants of the village had felt great alarm at the near approach of the 
armed ship, and had reinforced their fort, beside sending a number of soldiers on board of the letter 
of marque, Sandwich, formerly a British packet, but now in the service of the French, which lay 
close under the guns of the fort, wheie she was receiving a cargo of coffee, previous to her making 
a run for France. 

It was in the year 1800, just after the action between the Constellation and La Vengeance, and 
Uic name of the conqueror, Truxton, passed from lip to lip with instinctive consternation. Night 
came on; the moon had not appeared, and scudding clouds obscured the stars. The reveilM had 
been beaten at the garrison, and the inhabitants of Port Platte had retired to dream of the daring 
cruizers of the American squadron. The frigate, when she had lost sight of the island, came about, 
and under easy sail stood in for the shore. She was the Constitution, Commodore Talbot, and from 
the silence that reigned throughout the ship, and the total absence of light from the battle lanterns, 
the most careless observer would have supposed that she was about to do sometliing for the glory of 
the old thirteen. 

As she drew nigh the port, two officers might have been seen at the gangway, watching narrowly 
the lights that twinkled ahead. At this moment, the heavy roar of a cannon came echoing along 
the waters, and then one after another, the lights disappeared, until none were seen but those which 
seemed to be designed to burn throughout the night. 

" Now is your time," said the elder of the persons to the younger ; "have the second cutter man- 
ned, sir, and come to me for farther orders." Thus saying, the commodore, for it was he, looked at the 
compass and entered the cabin. In a few minutes, a knock at the cabin door, announced the arrival 
of some officer to make a report. 

" Enter," said the bluff old commodore, and immediately lieutenant Hull, the first of the Consti- 
tution, stood before him. 

" Are you ready 1'' said the commodore. 
" All ready, sir," replied the lieutenant. 

" Then, sir," said the commodore, " you will enter the harbor of Port Platte without being dia- 
covered, ascertain whether the ciaft that lies under the guns of the fort is the Sandwich, and when 
you shall have done so, return and make a report to me." 

" How shall I ascertain that fact without boarding her 1" said the lieutenant. 
" You will know her to be the Sandwich," replied the commodore, " by the black stripes around 
her white masts, and by the shortness of her bowsprit. Make haste, sir, for I long to give you a 

The lieutenant smiled as he bade the commodore good night, and, immediately ascending, gave 
such orders to the officer of the deck as he deemed necessary under the citcumstances of the case. 
The night was pretty well advanced as Mr. Hull wrapped himself in his boat cloak, and seated him- 
self in the stern sheets of the second cutter. 

" Shove off— let fall — pull cheerily, my boys," were the orders he gave, in a low voice, in quick 


SQCCession ; then passing swiftly around the frigate's stern, he pulled for the harbor, and was soon 
lost sight of. 

For two hours, nothing was heard of the adventurous ofircer or his boat, and the old commodore 
began to grow quite anxious about them. Already a pale streak stretched itself along the eastern 
waters, and the clouds giew thinner and fewer, while here and there a star peeped out, and was re- 
flected back by the waves below. 

" Boat ahoy '." challenged the sentinel at the gangway of the Constitution, as the dash of oars at 
this moment fell upon his ear. 

"Aye! aye !" replied the officer of the boat, and soon lieutenant Hull crossed the gangway of the 

" It is the Sandwich, sir," said the lieutenant, after reporting his return, and paying the custom- 
ary salute. 

" Are you certain!" said commodore Talbot. 

" I am, sir," replied the officer, " for I lay directly under hex stern, and heard through the cabin 
•windows, which were open, her officers congratulating themselves upon the departure of the Con- 
stellation, for such they deem this ship to be. Beside, I noticed her masts and bowsprit, as I swept 
along under the guns of the fort — they are as you described them to be." 

" I'll have her, by ," said commodore Talbot, as he looked again at the harbor, which began 

to show itself amid the haze of dawn. " About ship, sir — set all the studding sails," and, bidding 
the heutenant good night, the commander in chief bounced into his cabin. 

The frigate swiftly came about, and took her departure from the land. Soon the studding sails 
on both sides were spread out to the wind, and, like a mountain of snow, she danced along upon 
the bosom of the deep until her morning watch looked out in vain for the blue outline of the island 
of San Domingo. 

" Sail O !" cried the look-out. 

" Where away ?" said the officer of the deck. 

" On the lee bow, sir," replied the seaman. 

" Can you make her out 1" hailed the officer. 

«' She is a sloop, sir, and shows American colors." 

" Hoist our ensign," said the lieutenant. 

" Aye, there comes the Sally in the nick of time." said the commodore, who had left the cabin at 
the first hail. " Mr. Hull, make a signal for hei to run down and speak us ; we will soon proceed 
to business." 

In a short time, the sail, which proved to be the American sloop Sally, came alongside of the Con- 
stitution. After a conference with her captain, he and his crew came on board the frigate, while 
lieutenant Hull, with a party of seamen and marines, the latter led by the brave captain Carmick 
immediately repaired on board of the sloop. Having received orders from the commodore, the sloop 
now put her helm up, and ran for the island. 

" In the course of the night, while running down for her port under easy sail, a shot suddenly 
flew over the Sally, and soon after an English frigate ranged up alongside. Mr. Hull hove to and 
when the boarding lieutenant gained the sloop's deck, where he found so large a party of men and 
officers in naval unifoims, he was much surprised. He was told the object of the expedition how- 
ever, and expressed his disappointment, as his own ship was only waiting to let the Sandwich com- 
plete her cargo, in order to cut her out also."* 

It was about^noon of the following day when the sloop stood in to the harbor of Port Platte. Be- 
fore her lay the Sandwich, with her broadside bearing on the approach ; and in the rear of her at 
no great distance, a battery shov/ed its long row of black teeth for her protection. 

Lieutenant Hull had sent nearly all the men below, before he entered the harbor, and now, having 
a stern anchor ready, he bore down, like a short-handed lubberly sloop, for the bows of the Sand- 
wich. As he drew nigh the ship, he said, in a low voice, " Stand by to board," and soon a large 
number of men crouched under the bulwarks, ready for action. 

" You will be afoul of me," said the lieutenant of the Sandwich, who was leaning carelessly over 
the bulwark as the sloop came down. 

" I think I shall," was the laconic reply. In a moment, the sloop struck the bows of the enemy. 

" Let go the kedge '." thundered the lieutenant — it was done like magic. 

" Boarders, away !" cried he ; and, seizing his cutlass, he crossed the gangway of the Sandwich 
at the head of his men, and carried her without a struggle. 

Captain Carmick, in the ship's boats, now landed, carried the battery, spiked the guns, and retired 
without the loss of a man. 

A great commotion was nov/ perceptible on shore ; but the commander and his crew went swiftly 
to work to secure their prize, and, though she was dismantled above her deck, and her guns stowed 
in the hold, before sunset she had her royal yards crossed, her guns scaled, and her crew quartered. 

* Cooper's Naval History. 

VOL. v. KO. I. A 


Siie now got under way, with the American flag at her ensign-peak, and stood out of the harbor in 
company with the sloop. 

Evening vras slowly fading into night as a ship, followed at some distance by a sloop, boie down 
for the Constitution. 

" Hail the stranger," said commodore Talbot. 

^' What ship is thati" thundered the officer of the deck, through his trumpet. 

" The United States ship Talbot, I. Hull, commander," replied the victorious officer, as he drew 
near enough to be distinguished by the othcers of the frigate. 

" It is Hull, by heavens !" said the commodore. In a few minutes lieutenant Hull came on board 
and made his official report. After a short time, the Sally's captain and crew were returned to their 
vessel, with many thanks, and lieutenant Hull, having received orders to that effect, repaired on 
board the prize as her commander, and, crowding on all sail, followed the commodore to Jamaica. 


In 1803, we find our favorite ship, bearing the broad pendant of commodore Preble, entering the 
Mediterranean, to battle with the powers of Barbary. Octol)er 6th, 1803, the frigate Philadelphia, 
captain Bainbridge, captured off Cape de Gatta a cruizer belonging to the emperor of Morocco, call- 
ed the Meshboha, of twenty-two guns, Ibrahim Lubarez, commander, with a crew of one hundred 
aaid twenty men. This vessel having piratically seized the brig Celia, of Boston, commodore Pre- 
Me, in the Constitution, accompanied by the Nautilus, and the return squadron of commodore Kod- 
gers, sailed for Tangier Bay, for the purpose of convincing the brother of the sun and moon that a 
war with the United States would inevitably result in the destruction of his piratical navy, 

Tangier is situated on the northern coast of Africa, but a short distance from Cape Spartel. It 
£S a walled city of Morocco, and is rarely if ever visited excepting by market boats and vessels of 
war, on account of the long quarantine which is imposed by ports higher up the Mediterranean, 
upon all vessels who may have touched there. It lies thirty miles west of Gibraltar, is strongly foi- 
tified, has fourteen thousand inhabitants, and is the principal sea-port of the Moors. 

Its appearance from the sea is beautiful. Castles and forts of white stone, with the blood red flag 
•floating over each baslioh ; numerous white buildings, with the flags of every commercial nation 
waving in the breeze above them. Groves of orange and cypress trees towering above the walls, 
Hiark the foreground ; while far in the blue distance, the mountains of Mauritania towering in gran- 
deur, and to the left, and nigh at hand, the wild and broken summits of Mount Abyla — or in com- 
3cnon parlance, Apes Hill — rising high above the straits, complete a picture which, for variety and 
beauty, is rarely equalled in the Mediteiranean. If you turn to the opposite shore, you behold, peep- 
ing out from its beautiful olive groves, the little town of Tarifa, in Andalusia, celebrated as the spot 
where the Moors first landed, undei Taric el Tuerto, and commenced the conquest of Spain ; and far- 
ther out from the main land, you see its light-house, pointing the wandering mariner to the passage be- 
tween the pillars of Hercules; and, farther up the straits, behold "Dark Calpe's frowning steep," 
rising like a watchful lion to guard the sunny sea. 

In an inexhaustible' stone quaiTy near the city, which has been worked from time immemorial, to 
supply the Moors with mill stones, there stood a pillar, with an inscription upon its base, which in- 
formed the reader that it was raised by the wandering Canaanites, who had been driven out of their 
land, " flowing with milk and honey," by Joshua, the son of Nun ; and from the solid blocks of 
stone that lie about the entrance, and the great extent of the excavation — which reaches out to the 
sea — it requires but a little stretch of the human mind to believe that the children of Anak once 
labored there. 

It was sunrise at the straits of Gibraltar, when an American squadron stood by Tarifa point, and 
liove to in the bay of Tangier. The shores were sleeping in misty splendor, as the commodore furl- 
ed his topsails and made a signal for the squadron to anchor. Having secured the ships, a salute of 
twenty-one guns was fired, with the flag of Morocco floating at the fore, which was speedily answer- 
ed by the battery on shore. Freedom and slavery now lay side by side ; the stars and the stripes, 
and the bloody ensigns of the corsairs, waved together in the breeze, while the rattling of the Con- 
sxitution's drums mingled with the clashing of the Mussulman's cymbals. It was a stirring hour — 
the emperor's household had heard the roar of artillery, and wonder sate upon every countenance. 

It was yet early in the morning when the most sublime and mighty prince of Mauritania, aroused 
from his quiet sleep in his drowsy harem by the report of the Constitution's cannon, repaired to the 
divan, and held high court. There was a scowl upon his brow as he twisted his magnificent mus- 
tachios, and his thin lip curled in scorn, while his dark eye flashed with unusual brilliancy. Be- 
fore him, were the abject subjects of his will, and myriads of heads bent down in homage as he 
seated himself, while his body guards, in jewelled robes and spotted turbans, with pomp and pride, 
took their stations behind his ottoman. At length, beckoning to the bey, he said — " What dogs are 


these which disturb our ro3aI sleep before the hour of morning prayer 1 Hasten, Hassan, and bring 
us information." 

The bey informed him that a large squadron of American vessels of war had anchored in the 

" Mishalla !" said the emperor, with a look of apprehension, " let them be attended to." 

A white flag now streamed from the nearest bastion, which was answered by a similar display 
from every ship in the squadron ; and then a boat shot from the side of the Constitution, with a 
noble-looking oflicer in her stern-sheets, whose uniform showed him to be a captain in the navy of 
the United States. He was commodore Preble. In a short half hour, the emperor gave the gallant 
commodore an audience, and Mr. Simpson, the American consul, was placed upon a footing with, 
the consuls of the most favored nations. The emperor, through his interpreter, expressed his regret 
that any difference had arisen between the two nations, disavowed having given any hostile orders, 
and declared that he would punish any of his governors who had. He then gave an order, under 
his seal, for the release of the American brig Hannah, her cargo and crew, detained at Mogadore ; 
and the commodore gave up the Meshboha, the vessel taken by captain Bainbridge, and the Mis- 
houda, the vessel taken by commodore Rodgers, at an earlier period of the war. Having smoked a 
pipe and drunk the coffee of the most illustrious Moor, the commander of the squadron was about 
to retire from the presence chamber, when the emperor suddenly clapped his hands. Hassan Bey 
stepped forwaid. " Bring me the pen of my father, and the treaty made between him and the new 
world," said he, " that I may sign my name, and afHx my seal to it." 

The pen and the parchment scroll were then brought in, and Hassan Bey, having unrolled the 
latter on his bended knees, the emperor, in the presence of his divan, made his mark and affixed his 
seal below the ratification of his father ; and it is just to state, that ever afterwards he observed its 
stipulations with the strictness of an honest Mussulman. Three years ago, this treaty, which was 
to continue fifty years from its date, expired, and a new one was entered into, which is now in force. 
It is not a httle singular that the frigate Constitution, at the request of the consul of Tangier, made 
her second appearance off that port in 1836, to hasten a treaty with the emperor of Morocco. Will 
she, fifty years hence, be ready to do the same thing ? God grant it. 

After the usual ceremonies of leave-taking, the divan broke up ; the commodore then repaired on 
board his ship, and fired a salute ; the consul hoisted his flag again over his consulate, and the squad- 
ron getting under way, the Constitution stood up the straits followed by the Nautilus, while com- 
modore Rodgers and the return squadron proceeded to the United Slates. 

There is nothing like loaded cannon for expediting the consummation of a 'treaty with the Moors, 
and the only tribute that will satisfy them for ever, must consist of thirty-two pourvJ shot. There 
is no mistaking the meaning of such presents, and when offered by a Preble, from the deck of the 
Constitution, they — as we shall see hereafter — protected the flag, and increased the glory of his na- 
tive land. 

At midnight, as the Constitution, under easy sail, was beating up for Gibraltar, " she suddenly 
found herself alongside a large ship. Some hailing passed, without either party giving an answer ; 
commodore Preble, who had taken the trumpet himself, now told the name and country of his ship,, 
and his own rank. He then demanded the name of the stranger, adding that he would fire a shot 
unless answered. 

" ' If you fire a shot, I'll return a broadside,' was the reply. 

" Preble sprang into his mizen rigging, applied the trumpet, and said — ' This is the United States 
ship Constitution, a forty-four, commodore Edward Preble; I am about to hail you for the last time ; 
if not answered, I shall fire into you. What ship is that V 

" ' This is his Britannic Majesty's ship Donnegal, a razee of sixty guns.' 

" Preble told the stranger he doubted his statement, and should lie by him until morning, in order 
to ascertain his real character. He was as good as his word, and in a short time, a boat came from 
the other vessel to explain. It was an English /rig-a^e, and the Constitution had got so suddenly 
and unexpectedly alongside of her, that the hesitation about answering, and the fictitious name, had 
proceeded from a desire to gain time, in order to clear the ship and to get to quarters. The spirit of 
commodore Preble on this occasion produced a very favorable impression in his own ship ; the young: 
men pithily remarking, that if he was wrong in his temper, he was right in his heart."* 

The next morning, the Constitution came to anchor off Gibraltar, and thus ended the war with-. 

* Note to Cooper's Naval History. 


'TwAs calm on the waters — and night had drawn on 

Her mantlet of sable, her bright starry crown, 

And deeper each moment the azure sky grew, 

The billow reared darker its bosom of blue, 

The mermaid was leaving her deep coral cave, 

To joy in the stillness that reigned o'er the wave ; \ 

Ere the last smile of day o'er ocean did fade, 

On topsail and mast-head and pennant it play'd. 

The vessel was gallantly cleaving the spray, 

With canvas wide spread on hei homeward bound way, 

And full many a heart beat madly that night, 

As Hope whispered the morrow would bring land in sight. 

The moon rode on high — and her fair streamlets fell 

Alike on the deck and old ocean's proud swell, 

Tinged each mast, spar, and cord with her silver pale, 

And with sjiots of dark shade deck'd each half furled sail. 

On the helmsman — it glanced — and on one it shone, 

That over the taffrail was leaning alone : 

His bright eye seemed fixed in the distance afar. 

Yet heeded not billow, nor moon-beam, nor star. 

For the smile on his lip, the glow on his cheek, 

The heave of his breast 'neath his folded arms, speak 

A spirit already that's nestled at home. 

Where liight eyes and warm smiles cheer the end of his roam. 

One hour fled on — God ! what changes were there I 
O'er ocean and sky hung the shroud of despair ; 
The billows seemed striving the heavens to scale. 
And dashed their white foam in the face of the gale ; 
While now and anon came the sea-maids' wild shrieks 
In such blood-freezing tones as no mortal tongue speaks; 
jVot a star -ray broke thro'. the storm's drifting rack 
To guide that lone ship on her tempest crost track, 
But the fitful flash gleamed from the low hanging cloud. 
And showed how the tall masts were broken or bow'd — 
And drowning yells, caught 'mid the water spirits' dirge. 
Told of wretches engulphed in the v/ reek-sweeping surge. 

Still night on the waters — on wings of the blast, 
O'er the face of the moon, were clouds driving fast, 
And thro' their rent masses ller radiant beams broke, 
Pure, bright as they did ere the storm demons woke. 
Yet where was the bark that on ocean then rode, 
A thing full of life — Hope's smiling abode 1 
The sea-mew scream'd shrill round a sad mastless wreck 
That was tost by each wave without guidance or check : — 
Where were her gallant crew? — that sea-bird's scream rung 
The knell of the lone wretch to life who yet clung — 
One last sigh he breathed to those weeping at home. 

Then o'er him in wreathes curled the billow's white foam ! G, 

Philadelphia April 2d. 


Tho tuneful morn arose with looks of li^ht — 

The ear UiatclrauU her music's call was chill : 
The eye that shone was Sealed in endless night • 

And cold and still 

Tlie pulses stood that 'neatlfcergaze were wont to thrill. 

N. C. Brooks. 

Evert village which has seen its third generation, and every public building -which has survived 
the peltings of a half century's storms, claim as a part of their natural possessions, a larger or smaller 
portion of legendary lore. It is the powerful principle of association which imparts its interest to the 
antique dwelling or dismantled tower ; and as we gaze upon them, the imagination pierces the mist 
of the past and enlivens the scene with beings of its own creation. We go back to years long since 
commingled with the ocean of eternity, and see the busy actors of life's drama, as they performed 
their parts in the particular acts assigned them; and although they have flitted off the stage, the the 
atre of their performance is still before us. It affords us pleasure even when we are thrown solely 
tipon our imagination for persons and incidents to complete the scene : but the effort is less when we 
are supported with the principal events by history or tradition. 

No public building, perhaps, of the same age, affords as much food to the lover of incident, as a 
college. Changing its occupants every year ; its inhabitants collected promiscuously from all ranks 
of society, and possessing every possible shade of character and temperament, — its history must ne- 
cessarily be diversified. If the walls of our older institutions had tongues, how many thrilling tales 
of high anticipations, youthful enthusiasm, powerful effort and blasted hopes, might they disclose ! 
I have often listened to the breeze as it sighed through the long halls of our building, and imagined 
that it bore to my ear the merry peals of laughter which have rung through its chambers, mingled 
with the low sighs of many a hardened heart which has told its sorrow to that heedless breeze. 

There is one tale of grief connected with our alma mater, which has floated among us as a con- 
stituent part of hei earlier history. About thirty years ago, among the many who were here engaged 
in the enthusiastic strife for literary acquirement, there were two young hearts whose warm currents 
have long since been frozen in death. The rising sun of their hopes was early shrouded in a dark 

cloud which cast a melancholy shadow over the history of their lives. T of Kentucky, was a 

young man of respectable parts, but bold, passionate, and supercilious. Although his talents might 
have gained him respect, his disposition created an aversion to him among his companions and fellow 
students. He had that haughtiness in his carriage which is always sure to render a member of a 
society, as united as that of a college, disagreeable and unpopular. In the assignment of chambers 
he obtained as his room-mate a young gentleman who differed as much from him in disposition as 

the zenith does from the nadir. C was a quiet gentle soul. He possessed those qualities which 

secured him the warmest aflections of all around him. Although in delicate health, and generally 
pensive and retiring, the natural kindness and warmth of his feelings which gushed up like a full 
spring, endeared him to every one who formed an intimacy with him. As they differed so much iu 
their disposition, it is not to be expected that their mutual company would be agreeable. For some 
time, however, the restraint which a slight acquaintance imposed, prevented an exhibition of impro- 
priety on the part of the former, or uneasiness in the latter, but as they became more familiar, the 

spirit of T showed itself in unkind treatment to his room-mate. The sensitive heart of C 

could not brook the continued injury and unjustifiable abuse which was heaped upon him day after 
day. The presence of his insulter rendered his room the most disagreeable place on earth to him, 
and when absent his mind brooded over the incurable wounds which had been inflicted upon him. 

We gave T warning that a continuance of his conduct would be visited with retribution; but 

still he persisted in the same treatment which he before observed. In an evil hour C sent him a 

note, demanding gentlemanly satisfaction. The challenge was accepted, and the necessary preli- 
minaries arranged. 


Day was just dawning, and the pencil of light which streamed across the eastern horizon, pro- 
claimed the rising morning. The stars had not yet ceased to be visible. The citizens of our quiet 
tovsm were yet wrapt in the arms of sleep. To a verdawt lane within sight of the college, two small 
groups of persons were seen to move. ' There was a solemnity in their deportment which indicated 



that the occasion which called them out was not one of a lively nature. They moved with a firm,r. 
decisive step, as though neiving themselves to receive some sudden shock, or witness a painful catas- 
trophe. They stopped when they reached the lane, and a few minutes Vv^ere spent in conversation, — 
quick and hurried, — as though they feared that some superior force would suspend their operations. 

It was a duel scene. The ground wasmeasured ; the frail form of C and the tall person of T 

took their assigned station as the principal actors in the tragedy about to be enacted. Their weapons 
■were handed them, and each intent upon the horrid purpose of taking his brother's life, prepared to 
send his stained soul into the presence of a pure God. 

It was a moment of dread suspense. Hearts were beating then which might soon cease to pulsate 
forever. The shrine of many a holy affection and feeling, which if properly cultivated would have 
led them to honor and happiness, might soon be irreparably destroyed. The sun which should soon 
salute the earth with his blessed light, would look upon the happy homes of their childhood, where 
they had been caressed by the fondness of parents and friends, and where they were still remembered 
"with the kindest solicitude. Perhaps his first rays would greet an afleclionate mother in her chamber, 
mingling the most fervent petitions for her son's happiness with her morning orisons; and that son 
might be lost to her for ever. With quick succession, such thoughts passed through their fevered 
brain. A moment — a report — and the deed was done. C was wounded and fell. The re- 
mainder of the party, influenced by a dastardly cowardice wliich deserves to be branded, fled with 

There lay the dying one, alone. The stream of his heart's blood was gurgling through the wound, 
and as he fell with his head down a declivity, it rushed through his throat, choking him with it& 
warm current. It was vain to struggle with death. He had challenged the monster to the combat, 
and now felt his inabihty to meet him. And then to die in such a situation \- — with no kind friend 
to support the drooping head, and wipe the death-damp from the brow. Doubtless as he entered the 
dark avenue to the other world, fond memory presented the bright images of past joys, of kind sisters, 
of affectionate friends. In vain the earth put on her vernal robe, — he had looked upon her beauties. 
for the last time. It is painful to be ushered into the eternal world under any circumstances; but 
how terrible it is when we rashly tear aside the curtain which veils that future state of existence 
iirom us, and read upon the broad orb of eternity, our own condemnation. 

A melancholy fate is recorded of T . Warned by the spirit of his murdered companion, he 

left his native country, and sought to banish his painful feelings by visiting foreign lands. 

Ccelum non animum mutant, qui trans mare currunt. The image was still before him : it abode 
Twith him in private, followed him in public, and glared fearfully upon him in his midnight dreams. 
It preyed upon his mind until settled dejection took place, which finally terminated in decided in-» 
sanity. A wild maniac, he roamed over Italy. The balmy breath of her zephyrs brought no calm 
to his soul ; he regarded not the famous softness of her sky. He, who had been nursed upon the 
lap of luxury, depended on the cold charity of those to whom he was bound by no tie but that of 
common humanity; his haughty spirit was broken, and the pround superstructure of his mind was a 
desolate ruin. He laid him in that stranger land, where no kind friend could pen his epitaph. 

Dickinson College, D; 



Still do thy waters flow, on which looked down 
The Seven-hilled city, from its pride of place, 
"Which mirrored forth its glory and its grace : 
Oh ! thou whose dicta shook the world, whose frown 
Made mightiest monarchs tremble on their thrones 
And bend in homage to thy conquering sway. 
Art now a heap of monumental stones : 
There, human greatness, shrouded in decay. 

Owns the vain-glory of usurping pride, 
Whose bubbles rise and sink on time's swift tide ; 
Still rolls, unchanged, imperial Tiber on. 
Though the rich splendors of its shores are gone. 
Thus rivers flow, though their proud cities fall, 
For nature holds her sway, triumphantly o'er alL 




" The debtor cannot be arrested before the rising nor after the setting of the snn.''— Code ilcpro, civ. art. 78 J. 

If you have hitherto escaped the grasp of the sheriff's officers, if the cuffs of your sleeves have not 
yet been defiled by the bailiff's touch, you can form no conception of the bitterness of an arrest. It 
is one of those unspeakable sensations which you will not again experience, save in Tartarus; thatis^ 
if old Minos shall think fit to condemn you. A few days ago, I was still free in that anomalous liberty, 
which knoweth not the clear light of heaven, and defendeth itself from the sun. Ferreted out by the 
commercial blood-hound, I was forced early in the morning from my ensconcement in a garret, where 
I was sleeping, neither well nor ill, until such time as it would be day with me, and still night witli 
the rest of mankind. Last Friday, as the town clock was striking eight — 

" The owl is commencing its flight," said a young woman, (the confidante of my misfortiisse,) 
through the key-hole. 

" Thanks, blue-eyed angel, with black hair," I replied, in aromantic tone of voice ; " since the ianip 
of heaven is extinguished, the cat may go out upon the gutters." 

With these words, I put on a light surtout, and directed my uncertain steps toward the Palais Eoy- 
al. Arrived near the bank, I mechanically cast my eyes upon the playbills of the day. 

"Theatre de Madame — First representation of 'The Setting of the Sun.' Comedy vandeTiDe; 
M. Perlet will perform the character of Aigentieres." 

Capital ! My instinct as a debtor irresistibly hurried me to such a representation. I entered pre- 
cisely as the curtain rose, and took the first seat that offeied. 

Aigentieres was just like myself, a night-bird; invited to a soiree, it there chances that he forgets 
himself, amid punch and the card-tables. At the rising of the sun he dares not venture into the 
streets, for he has perceived from the window a visage of bad omen : 't is that of a sheriff-officer, 
planted at the door of the hotel like a gibbet, and awaiting his victim with fatal vigilance. It was 
necessary, then, that Argentieres should devise a thousand pretexts for remaining at his post till even- 

"How shall I manage"!" exclaimed Perlet. 

His embarrassing position drew from me an exclamation and sympathetic applause. My right 
hand neighbor, a very troublesome fellow, applied his glass and eyed my countenance with an im- 
pertinence truly provoking. I silently contented myself with turning my back to him, and offering^ 
a more befitting view; but the fellow, whose gaze partook somewhat of the satanical, ceased notfrcirj 
his scrutiny of my person ; above all, at that moment when the v/inding-up of the piece extracted a 
new burst of sympathy. My patience was exhausted, and I gave him an intentional push, hy acci- 

" My dear sir! your address," said he to me, while re-adjusting his glass, which had been deraugedl 
by my abrupt motion. 

" Ah! very well," added he, reading the name and number of my street; "you shall see me, sir, 
early to-morrow morning." 

" You will oblige me, sir, by coming very early." 

" I shall not fail, I assure you." 

And as we quitted each other his glass was still pursuing me. I slept ill ; I am no coward, hut a 
duel occasions restlessness even to the man most philosophically detached from life. At six o'clock 
came a knock at my door; it was the quizzing-glass fellow, accompanied by two gentleman of a sx^~ 
ficiently pleasant countenance. 

" Gentlemen, I am at your service." / 

" You shall not escape us, sir." 

" These two pistols will decide our difference." 

" Quite useless, sir, we have here every thing requisite for us." 

" Since you are armed, then, at all points, we can depart." 

" At all points," replied he with a sneer, " that is the phrase ; let us get into the coach^'" 


burton's gentleman's magazine. 

"Where are we going 1" 

"Rue de la Cle, sir." 

"How, Ruede la Clel" 

" By virtue of the peremptory decree issued against you on the first day of June, by the tribunal 
of commerce, duly registered, and to you notified, a petition, etc. etc., I arrest you, in the king's name : 
that you may not remain ignorant, I beg leave to inform you, that I am an officer in the guard of 
commerce, and these gentlemen are my satellites." 

At these words I fell into a lethargic despondency, from which I was not roused until I heard the 
grating of the lock of Saint Pelagic, as it closed behind me. 

" Another time," said I, " catch me giving my address to the first wrangler that comes to hand, and 
thus compromising my existence as a free man, for the sake of making a show of empty bravery." 

The reflection is excellent, but comes, unhappily, a little too late, like all other reflections in which 
tlie prisoner indulges within the walls of Saint Pelagic. J. G. W. 


At the coming of dawn, ere the sun 
Had his visible course begun. 
And song burst from every bill ; 
Whilst the earliest breezes were chill. 
And the dews on our hearts and our homes 
Lay sweet as our balm in bee-combs ; — 
In the sultry succeeding of noon, 
When in the pale azure the moon 
Lay faint as the faintest of clouds, 
And we swoon'd in our emerald shrouds ; — 
At the graceful survening of even. 
Ere twilight shed sleep upon heaven ; 
We were cheer'd thro' the beautiful hours 
By bands of our sweet sister-flowers : — 
But' scarce had the sun's loving eye 
Look'd its last from the golden sky. 
When a creature that seem'd of the skies, 
By the light of her eloquent eyes, 
By her cheeks, and her lips, and her tresses, 
And the bed where they lay in caresses. 
And the grace of her form and its motion, 
Came amidst us ; and seeming devotion 
To our beauty and fragrancy paid. 
And with love-looks our droop'd lids survey'd: 
But ruin pursued her regard ; 
And bloom after bloom from the sward, 
And bud after bud, did she sunder ;, 
And o'er her white bosom and under 
With passion fantastic array'd them, 
And for joy with death-dreariness paid them : 
That now, in the light of the stars, 
Our sorrow dew'd slumber debars ; 
And the spii it of life in our veins, 
Of bereavement eternal complains; 

I And when the new dawn shall arise 
I On the verge of the orient skies, 
'Twill but vex the shut grief in our eyes I 

For this murder of those that we cherish'd ; 
Whose life in her selfishness perish'd, 
May she love, and be answcr'd with scorn, 
And her heart with vain cravings be torn ! 
Which to glut, with mere limb may she mate, 
And then sicken with loathing and hate; 
Whilst the life which her blood must allume, 
Doth but gasp thro' one breath to the tomb, 
And she drag on from mori'ow to morrow, 
To lorn death thro' a desert of sorrow ! 

But, if by the love she will vow, 
Which deep in her young blood doth grow, 
And which springeth, and springeth, and springeth 
And grace all about her forihbringeth — 
Never more, with a merciless hand. 
To make spoil of our innocent band 
But leave us to live, love and die 
At God's will, in the breath of his sky; 
And the beam and the dew of our birth 
Still feel as we wither in earth — 
We revoke every spell of our curse ; 
And its tenor heart-blighting reverse ; 
May her fond love, by fond answer met, 
Never droop in the shade of regret ; 
May she kiss, and still kiss, and adore ; 
Till the dream which enchanteth be o'er ; 
May she bee-drain the sweets it can gi've. 

And die when 'tis sorrov/ to live ! 

* •yv * 



BY LIEUT. C X E , U. S. A E, M T 

The coui-se of true love never did run smooth. 

Is all the bay and harbor of Rio de Janeiro, so often described by travellers as one of the most ca- 
pacious, and certainly the most beautiful in the world, no portion is so beautiful or possesses so 
much of the romantic and picturesque as Botafogo Bay, one of the many parts which unite to con- 
stitute the beauteDUS whole first mentioned. 

Brazil, justly styled the garden of the world, has no spot equally fair with tliis, and while wan- 
dering midst its verdant fields and in the depths of its forests, where 

" nor dint of hoof nor print of foot 
Lay in the wild luxurious soil ;" 

a traveller might well imagine he had at last reached the spot so long sought after, where our first 
father saw and wooed the fairest, first of women. Eve. 

To return, however, to the Bay of Rio, completely shut in on three sides by lofty hills and moun- 
tains covered with perpetual verdure, high among which the towering corcovado rears its head, like 
a blasted pine in a grove of beauty; groves of orange trees, filled with the "golden apple" scattered 
in every direction by the tasteful and profuse hand of nature, give a rich beauty and softness to the 
scene, while in bold relief are seen the massy Gavia and the well known sugar-loaf, nature's hand- 
marks, to guide the weary mariner to the " haven where he would be :" all that is wanting to com- 
plete the picture is the massy fort of Santa Oruz, "bristling horribly" with 

" those mortal engines, whose rude throats 
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit," 

and presenting an impassable barrier to the entrance of the harbor, at the mouth of which it is situa- 

The shores of Botafogo Bay are lined with villas of surpassing beauty and neatness of architecture ; 
among which stands pre-eminent that of the late beautiful Countess of Santos, a monument at once 
of the fiailty of its fair occupant and the munificence of her imperial lover, Pedro the First. 

I have been thus particular in the description, or rather in this poor attempt at description, of this 
lovely spot, from its being the scene of the events I am about to narrate ; and as the facts upon which 
this " ower true tale" are founded, did actually occur. I might in compliance with the long observed 
rule of scribbling, premise, " that the actors in the drama, or some of them, being still alive, delicacy 
forbids me to disclose their names, etc." Such, I believe, is admitted to be a privilege of long stand- 
ing, and I might be disposed to avail myself of it, but for the simple reason, that I do not know the 
real names of any one mentioned in my story, although I once heard them ; nor do I know whether 
they are ahve or dead, but I think I hear my fair reader exclaim, (while more than half inclined to 
throw away this nonsense,) the story, sir, the story ; thus, then it is : 

In the year 18 — ; but before I proceed any farther, I ought to tell you how I became acquainted 
with the facts I relate, and begging the pardon of any one, whose patience has accompanied me thus 
far, for drawing a little more upon their stock thereof, I will, in as brief a way as possible, state the 
the how, when, and where. 

It was on an evening of surpassing loveliness, such as is no where seen but in the tropics, that 
after having spent a day of solitude in my hammock, trying by inactivity and passiveness to escape 
the heat, as the thermometer had been playfully ranging from 90° to 100° in the shade, with no 
society but my Byron, my own thoughts, (poor company, I think I see you preparing to remark, so 

24 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

that I will save you the trouble by confessing it myself,) and though last, by no means least, a choice 
"Havana," the which I can confidently recommend to every one, as the greatest of luxuries in a 
warm climate, where was I, oh ! I had just got out of my hammock, (another luxury,) and deter- 
lermined to enjoy to the utmost the coolness of the evening. I entered my canoe, and with my only 
attendant, (cook, valet, and chambermaid, " trio juncta in uno'' as Sheridan said,) paddled down the 
harbor from my cottage on the Island of Cobras, until we arrived at the mouth of Botafogo Bay, 
which we entered ; whilst paddhng round the bay and resigning myself to the control of spirit en- 
gendered by the fairy like appearance of the scene, I observed a white cross painted upon the rocks, 
which near the entrance of the bay, reach to the water's edge. 

Having never before noticed it, I was considerably astonished at the sight, as these crosses are 
usually the "memento mori's" of some murder that has been committed on the spot where they are 
erected, and I could not believe that the hand of the assassin would have invaded a sanctuary like 

On inquiry, I gained from my companion, a venerable Brazilian, the following particulars, which 
I give you rendered into English, and stripped of numerous digressions on his part, during the nar- 
ration, which would most certainly not interest you, any more than I fear mine have. 

In the year 18 — , the Martini palace which was located a short distance from Botafogo bay, in the 
direction of the city of Rio de Janeiro, was not more celebrated for its grandeur and magnificence, 
than for its owner, the Marquis Juan de Martini ; — cold, haughty, and reserved in his manners, he 
was liked by no one ; secluded almost altogether from the world, he appeared to feel no interest in 
any one around him, and but for one circumstance, the fact of his existence even would have been 
forgotten, so rarely did he appear in public. Like Jeptha, he had one fair daughter, and her he did 
indeed love passing well. 

Isabel de Martini had long been celebrated as the fairest of the fair, in the imperial city of St. 
Sebastian; her dark eye beaming with intelhgence, was surmounted by a brow of perfect symmetry, 
and her raven locks playing loosely about her sculptured neck, gave her an almost elf-like appearance. 
Beauty cannot be described, and any description would fall short of what Isabel really was; let every 
one draw from his imagination for her image, for she was lovely as imagination can conceive ; would 
that I could do so, but although a worshipper of the fair daughters of Eve, almost to idolatry, I never 
yet could transfer their charms to paper : sirffice it then to say, that among all the dark eyed beauties 
of this sunny land, who stand unrivalled both for form, and face, Isabel de Martini shone pie- 
eminent. Many were the admirers, and among them many of the proudest nobles of Brazil, who 
had sued for the honor of her hand, and all in vain ; to all she turned an inattentive ear, and if the 
truth must be told, the fair Isabel was just the least in the world of a coquette, and however much 
her vanity might be flattered by seeing her train of admirers swelling with the noble and the rich, 
she passed along unmoved by any, " fancy free." 

Pass over a year in the life of our heroine, and go with me to the shores of the bay I have de- 
scribed to you ; the moon was shining with its silvery light upon the still waters of the bay, which 
clearly as a mirror, reflected all around it, yet no object Was reflected half so fair as the forms of Isabel 
and a young man, who, with his arm around her, was gazing on his companion with an expression 
of the deepest afl'ection. Long they walked, and if we do not give you the subject of their conver- 
sation, it is for the two-fold reason, that being lovers, it was necessarily of a character uninteresting 
to a third person, and moreover, I did not hear a word of it; time flew, but still they strolled along 
the tranquil margin of ihe bay, and it was the lady who first observed the lateness of the hour, and 
spoke of returning. 

" Do not detain me longer," she said, " indeed, indeed, Fernando, I must leave you ; my absence 
will be remarked, and though for myself I care not, still your safety as much as my own, demands 
that we should be prudent ; indeed we must separate, but 'tis only till to-morrow." 

" Dearest Isabel," replied her lover, " how can I ever sufliciently repay you 1 you, the admired of 
all, the loveliest of your sex, thus to brave all for me — and must we part? would that the time were 
come, when we will fly together far from this hated place, and secure from all pursuit, live only for 
each other." 

" Once more, then," said Isabel, "good night; for my sake, be careful of yourself, and remember 
that my existence is dependant upon yours. God bless you, good night." 

The youth folded her in his arms, and hastily impressed a kiss upon her brow, which was of a 
marble paleness, and .then releasing her, the maiden disappeared among the rocks; he gazed after 
her for a few morirents, then casting off" the fastening of a canoe, which lay concealed in a small cove 
beneath, he sprang into it, and rapidly plying his paddle, in a very brief space he reached the op- 
posite shore, and disappeared. As the scene just described may appear a little strange to those whose 
patience has carried them thus far, it v;iil be proper to state the particulars of the acquaintance 
which had arisen between our heroine, and the evident object of her choice. 

At a public ball given by the Emperor, to which not only the nobility, but all the respectable in- 
habitants of Rio were admitted, the fair Isabel was as usual the cyrrosure of all admirirrg glances ; 
and while to all their flattering speeches she turned an inattentive ear, she was much struck with 
the appearance of a young stranger, who although not belonging to her own rank in life, was evident- 


ly one of " nature's noblemen," and she secretly acknowledged to herself that had any of her previous 
admirers but resembled him, her heart had not been so difficult to subdue; — never had she ex- 
perienced such sensations as those which now possessed her, and she was pleased, although unable 
to define the cause, to observe that he was evidently gazing upon her with an eye of sincere admira- 

He was the son of a captain in the Imperial Army, who had fallen in the service of his country, 
and had left his son wholly dependant upon his own exertions for support. Long had he gazed 
with admiration amounting to idolatry, upon the lovely Isabel, whom he had often seen in pubhc ; 
never before, however, had he been thrown so directly into the society of one, whom, he felt, to see 
was to love ; and now that he could at leisure gaze upon those charms, he resigned himself to the 
control of his passion, and with a thrill of transport, observed that his admiration was noticed, and 
was evidently not disagreeable to its object. The last person noticed by Isabel, on leaving the ball, 
was the stranger, whose eyes were still intently fixed upon her, and if a responsive glance fiom her 
met his eye, who shall blame her 1 

In this country, where intrigue is the chief business of life, but little difficulty occurred in his con- 
veying to his " lady love" the intelligence that he lived but for her; and it would be tedious to nar- 
rate the manner in which he obtained his first interview with her. The greatest difficulty which 
arose was lespecting the place of meeting, until chance disclosed to them a path leading through the 
mountains from the Martini palace to the bay ; there in the face of heaven, alone, the lovers met in 
the still hour of midnight, and with the resplendent moon, and all the heavenly •' isles of light" alone 
for witnesses, told their love, and spoke of future happiness. 

Much difficulty attended their meetings, as it was necessary for Isabel to await the retiring of all 
the family, before she could leave her chamber, which she was enabled to do by means of a private 
door, communicating with the garden. Anxiously would she remain in the solitude of her apart- 
ment, until the entire cessation of noise within the house, bade her fly to her appointment ; then in 
her lover's arms, with no thought for aught on earth save him, in whom were centred all the resist- 
less feelings of her heart, would she be for a time completely happy ; as few will deny, that the en- 
joyments (and especially those of this description,) of which we partake by stealth, are more intense 
than those which we possess sanctioned by all around us. 

Thus had they met in secret, for several months, and now only awaited the sailing of a vessel, 
whose captain (convinced of the propriety thereof, by the argument of a well filled purse) had con- 
sented to receive them on board, and carry them to some far distant land, where secure from oppo- 
sition, and revenge, they might be happy in each other. But I am delaying the catastrophe too long, 
and will forthwith proceed to the denouement. 

To enable Isabel to carry into efifect her plans for meeting her lover, it had been necessary for 
her to make a confidante of a servant, whom she believed to be devotedly attached to her ; avarice, 
however, reigned triumphant in her soul, and she betrayed the secret to her mistress' father, for a 
sum of money. His rage at learning the disgrace thus brought upon his house, for as such he con- 
sidered it, cannot be described. 

I felt, but cannot paint his rage, 


He determined at once upon a terrible revenge ; that he might be certain of the fact, he had fol- 
lowed Isabel on this, their last night of meeting, and unseen, had been a witness of the lover's in- 
terview; he could scarcely restrain himself from at once rushing upon, and destroying the devoted 
lover, but he did so, and returned to his palace with the fixed resolve, that this meeting should be 
their last. 

On the following night, he took measures to detain his daughter in conversation for an hour be- 
yond the appointed time, and several of his servants were stationed at the place of meeting with 
orders to assassinate the unfortunate object of his wrath, on his arrival. 

At the appointed hour, Fernando hastened on the wings of love, to meet his mistress ; another 
night of beauty seemed to hallow his intent : nature was at rest, and the bright moon shone . coldly 
down, only to light him to his death ; with a light heart he entered his canoe, crossed the bay, and 
arrived on the opposite shore ; before he had time to notice and wonder at the absence of his mistress, 
the assassins' daggers were in his heart ; he died with her name upon his lips, and leaving him where 
he fell, the murderers fled. 

The moment that Isabel could disengage herself from her father, she humed to her room, and re- 
gardless of her former caution, flew to her appointment; her father watched, and at a distance fol- 
lowed her ; she soon reached the spot, and oh ! what a sight of horror met her eye ! hei lover, whom 
she last saw in all the radiant pride of beauty and of youth, now lay dead before her, pierced with 
many wounds, and covered with his blood ; she threw herself frantically beside him, hoping that 
some spaik of life might still be unextinguished. Such hopes, however, were in vain ; and as the 
thought flashed upon her that she had been betrayed, she gave herself up entirely to the horror and 
anguish of the moment ; it was but for an instant, however, for rising rapidly, she rushed with a 
frantic scream to the water's edge, and throwing herself into the depths beneath, which possessed no 
terrors for her, she sank to rise no more. 

26 burton's gentleman's magazine 

Her father had followed her to enjoy the sight of the betrayer of his house, (as he supposed,) 
lying dead before her, and to upbraid his daughter with the dishonor she had brought upon him. He 
was too late, he arrived but in time to see her sink beneath the wave. 

The waters wild, went o'er his child 
And he was left lamenting. 

The cross I saw is the sole monument to the unfortunate lovers. Such is the story I listened to, 
and I only regret my inability to do it greater justice ; such as it is, however, it is true, and many of 
the inliabitants still can tell of the surpassing beauty and tragic end of the fair and unfortunate 
Isabel de Martini. 

St. Augustine, East Florida, April 20th, 1839. 



How beautiful, mother earth! thy varied scenes to me : 

Whether the cultured landscape smile with soften'd majesty, 

Or, in thy sterner aspect, rocks in wild confusion rise 

Abrupt, magnificently grand, their summits in the skies: 

Whether thou gleam'st with winter's sheen, or spring's gay smile dost wear. 

With summer blossoms cloth'd, or pale leaves of the dying year; 

Though 'neath night's star-inwovcn mantle wrapt in sacred gloom, 

Or blushing in the morning light, all fragrancy and bloom. 

Or basking with voluptuous looks in noontide's fervid ray. 

Or smiling through thy dewy veil meekly at close of day : 

Still, mother eaith ! in every mood, in every varied change. 

My heart could almost worship thee — so wonderfully strange. 

And thou, ocean ! beautiful, most beautiful thou art, 

And ever to my care-worn soul fresh joy dost thou impart. 

Whether fierce-wing'd with tempest-wrath, thou battiest with the sky. 

Or, like a cradled infant, singest thy low-sweet lullaby : 

In all thy shifting forms, I see the wonder-working skill 

Of laim who wakes thy wildest rage, or whispers " peace be still!" 

Thou mighty reservoir ! vast cauldron ! ever pouring forth 

Into the spongy air thy mists to fertilize the earth ; 

Like the heart's life-blood bubbling through each artery and vein. 

Returning by unnumber'd tubes back to the fount again ; 

So sea-fed clouds descend, springs gush, and rivers feed the main. 

Ocean! I never gaze on thee but solemn musings fill 

My eyes with tears, my heart with an unutterable thrill. 

Thou two-fold emblem ! of eternity thyself ; thy waves 

Of time, which rising from thee, find within thyself their graves. 

Vast as thou art, the moon's behests thou dost perforce obey ; 

And as she bids, dost rise or fall, obedient to her sway. 

Great moral lesson ! did we thus to virtue's rule conform, 

Ne'er should we mourn the wreck of peace amid our passions' storm. 





She had a song of— Wjllovi'— 
An old thing 'twas, but it expressed her fortune. 
And »he died singing it : that song, to night. 
Will not go from my mind. 


There lies in the north of England a considerable tract of land, now known by the name of the 
Waste Lands, which once formed the richest property of two wealthy families by whom untoward 
circumstances had caused it to be deserted. For some time, it was looked after by stewards, too much 
bent upon profiting themselves to regard the interests of their employers. The tenantry, who, drain- 
ed of their hard earnings, were obliged to vex the land till it became a bed of stones, dropped off one 
by one. The hedge-rows, being unremittingly assisted in the progress of decay by the paupers of 
the neighborhood, were soon reduced to nothing but dock-weeds and brambles ; which gradually 
uniting from the opposite ends of the fields, the property became a huge thicket, too encumbered 
ever to be worth clearing, and only valuable to poachers and gypsies, to whom it still affords abundant 
booty and a secure hiding place. 

The two mansions have kept pace in ruin with the lands around them. The persons left in charge 
of them, being subject to no supervision, put themselves but little out of their way to preserve that 
which was so lightly regarded by the owners. Too careless to repair the dilapidations of time and 
the weather, they were driven, by broken windows and rickety doors, from office to office, and from 
parlor to parlor, till ruin fairly pursued them into the grand saloon ; where the Turkey carpets were 
tattered by hob-nails, and the dogs of the chase licked their paws upon sofas of silk and satin. In due 
time, the rain forced its way through the roofs, and the occupiers having no orders to stop it with a 
tile, the breach became wider and wider. Soon the fine papering began to show discolored patches, 
and display the lath and plaster which bulged through it ; then the nails which supported the family 
portraits gave way with their burthens; and finally, the rafters began to yield, and the inhabitants 
wisely vacated the premises in time to avoid the last crash, rightly conjecturing that it was useless 
to leave the moveables behind to share in the common destruction, when there was so little likelihood 
of their ever being inquired after. 

Thus ended the pride both of HeronclifT and Hazledell, which may still be seen, from each other, 
about a mile apart, shooting up a few parti-colored walls from their untrimmed wildernesses, and 
seeming, like two desperate combatants, to stand to the last extremity; neither of them cheered by a 
sign of Ufe, excepting the jackdaws which sit perched upon the dead tips of the old ash trees, and 
the starlings that sweep around at sunset in circles, within which the country folks have rarely been 
hardy enough to intrude. 

The last possessor who resided at Hazledell was an eccentric old bachelor, with a disposition so 
composed of kindness and petulance, that every body liked, and scarcely any one could live with him. 
His relations had been driven away from him, one after the other ; — one because he presumed to 
plead the poverty of a tenant whom the old man had previously resolved upon forgiving his rent ; 
another, because he reserved the choice bin of the cellar when wine was prescribed for the sickness 
of the poor; and a third, because he suffered himself to be convinced in politics, and destroyed a fair 
subject for arguments which were intended to afford time to his company for discussing their good 

There was but one person who understood him, and this was his nephew; who continued to the 
last his only companion, and kept him alive solely by knowing how to manage him. He had the 
good taste never to remind him of his years by approaching him with that awe which is commonly 
demonstrated by young people towards the old ; and the tact to observe exactly where his foibles 
would bear raillery, and where they required sympathy. He could lead him from one mood to another, 

20 burton's gentleman's MAGAZINSe 

so thai the longest day in his company never seemed monotonous ; oi if he rambled away amongst 
the neighborhood, he could return at night with a tale of adventures which sent him to bed without 
repining at the prospect of to-mwrow. Unluckily the old man considered him too necessary to his 
comforts to part with him ; and though merely the son of a younger brother, without fortune or ex- 
pectations, he was not permitted to turn his mind to a profession, or to any thing beyond the present. 
The youth, however, was scarcely twenty -three ; and at such an age, a well-supplied purse for the 
time being leaves but little anxiety for the future. 

With a good education, picked up as he could by snatches, a sprightly disposition, and a talent 
equal to any thing, young Vibert of Hazledell was as welcome abroad as he was at home; and it 
■was argued that his handsome figure and countenance would stand him in the stead of the best pro- 
fession going. The young ladies would turn from any beau at the country-ball to greet his arrival, 
and never think of engaging themselves to dance till they were quite sure that he was disposed of. 
One remarked upon the blackness of his hair, another upon the whiteness of his forehead; and the 
squires who weie not jealous of him would entertain them with his feats of horsemanship and adroit- 
ness at bringing down, right and left. Still Vibert was not spoiled ; and the young ladies pulled up 
their kid gloves till they split, v^'ithout making any visible impression upon him. His obstinacy was 
quite incomprehensible. Each ridiculed the disappointment of her friend, in the hope of concealing 
her own ; and all turned for consolation to the young master of Heroncliff. 

Marcus of Heroncliif, was nearly of an age with Vibert, and was perhaps still more popular with 
the heads of families, if not with the younger branches ; for he had the advantage of an ample fortune. 
His person, also, was well formed, and his features were, for the most part, handsome ; but the first 
had none of the grace of Vibert, and the last had a far different expression. His front, instead of 
being cast in that fine expansive mould, was contracted and low, and denoted more cunning than 
talent. His eye was too deeply sunk to indicate openness or generosity ; and the tout ensemble gave 
an idea of sulkiness and double-dealing. It was held by many that his outward appearance was not 
a fair index of his disposition, which was said to be liberal and good-natured. The only fault which 
they found with him was, that his conversation seemed over-much guarded for one of his age. He 
appeared unwilling to show himself as he really was, and the greatest confidence which could be re- 
posed in him produced no corresponding return. He walked in society like one who came to look 
on rather than mix in it ; and although his dependants lived in profusion, his table was rarely en- 
livened save by the dogs which had been the companions of his sport. 

Vibert, whose character it was to judge always favorably, believed that his manner and mode of 
life proceeded from the consciousness of a faulty education, and a mistrust of his capacity to redeem 
lost time. He felt a friendliness for him, bordering upon compassion ; and their near neighborhood 
affording him frequent opportunities of throwing himself in his way, a considerable degree of intimacy 
was, in course of time, established between them. Vibert was right, as far as he went, in his esti- 
mate of his friend's mind ; but he never detected its grand feature. Marcus was sensible that he was 
below par amongst those of his rank, and a proud heart made him bitterly jealous of all who had the 
advantage of him. It was this that gave verity to the expression which we have before noticed in 
his features; made him a torment to himself; and rendered him incapable of sympathising with 
others. If a word were addressed to him, he believed that it was designed to afford an opportunity 
of ridiculing his reply; if he chanced to be contradicted, his visage blackened as though he felt that 
he had been insulted. Vibert, so open to examination, was the only person whom he did not suspect 
and dread. They hunted, shot, -and went into society together ; and it was observed that Marcus lost 
nothing by the contact. His confidence increased, his reserve in some degree disappeared, and 
Vibert secretly congratulated himself on having fashioned a battery to receive the flattering attentions 
from which he was anxious to escape. His ambition, indeed, was otherwise directed. 

At a few miles' distance from Hazledell was a pretty estate, called Silvermere, from a small lake, 
■which reflected the front of the dwelling and the high grounds and rich timber behind it. It was 
inhabited by persons of consideration in the county, who were too happy at home to mix much with 
their neighbors. In fact, of a numerous family, there was but one daughter old enough to be in- 
troduced; and she was of a beauty so rare, that theie was little danger in keeping her upon hand 
until her sister was of an age to accompany hei into society. 

In this family, Vibert had been for some time a favorite, and had been fascinated on his first in- 
troduction to it. The beauty of whom we have made mention, and her sister, a year or two younger, 
■were placed on either side of him ; and it was hard to know whether most to admire the wild tongue 
and laughing loveliness of the younger — the fair-haired Edith ; or the retiring, but attractive dignity 
of the black eyes and pale fine features of the elder — the graceful Marion. They were, perhaps, both 
pleased to see the hero of the county conversations , but the younger one was the foremost to display 
it ; without being a flirt, she was frank, and had the rare, natural gift of saying and doing what she 
pleased without danger of misconstruction. 

The daring but femmine gaiety of this young creature speedily dispelled from the mind of Vibert 
all idea of his recent acquaintance. On his showing any recollection of it, she assured him that, on 
her part, the acquaintance was by no means recent, for she had heard him discussed as often as any 
Knight of the Round Table. 


"To place you upon an equality with us," she said, " I will tell }'ou what sort of persons we are, 
and you can judge v.'hcthcr, at any future time, when your horse happens to knock up in our 
neighborhood, and your dinner to be five miles off, you will condescend to take advantage of us. 
Papa and mamma, who you see have been a handsome couple, and would think themselves so still 
if they had not such a well grown family, are by no means rigid, exacting, fault-finding, and dis- 
agreeable, like papas and ■mammas in general. They have had the good taste to discover our precose 
talents, and profit by being our companions instead of our rulers, from the time we learned the art 
of spelling words of one syllable, and doing as we were not bidden. Instead of scolding us for our 
misdeeds, they used to reason with us as to their propriety, and generally got the worst of the argu- 
ment ; so, saving that in virtue of our old companionship we make them the confidants of most of 
our dilemmas, they have brought us up charmingly undutiful and self-willed. 

"As for Marion, she is a young lady erroneously supposed to be the pride of the family, who pre- 
sumes to regard me with a patronising complacency, and to encourage me in the idea that, one of 
these days, I shall really learn to talk. She is a sedate personage, who tries to reflect upon things ; 
but, as the same deep study has shaded her brow as long as I can recollect, I imagine that she does 
not often come to a conclusion. Yet the falsely-styled pride of Silvermere does not blanch her cheeks 
in the unwholesome atmosphere of learned tomes ; nor by spinning the globes, nor by hunting the 
stars. Her character is a little touched with romance, and her study is how to mend a bad world, 
which continues aihng in spite of her. She gives all her consolation, and half of her pin-money, to 
a tribe of old dames and young damsels, who, under such patronage, only pull our hedges in greater 
security, or add fiesh colors to the costume which is to flaunt triumphant on the fair day. The 
urchins whom she teaches ' to guess their lessons,' and buys off from aiding in the toils of their 
parents, are the most mischievous in the neighborhood ; and, in short, things go on worse and worse, 
and poor Marion does not know what to make of it. From the humbler world, so different from the 
Arcadian affair of her imagination, she turns with despair to the sphere in which she is herself to 
move, and shudders at the prospect of disappointment there also. Where, amongst such a community 
of young ladies battling for precedence, and young gentlemen vowing eternal constancy to a dozen 
at a time, can she look for the friend of her soul, or the more favored being who is to console her for 
the want of one 1 Alas, the pride of Silvermere ! with feelings so delicate that a gossamer might 
wound them, how can she accommodate herself to any world but that of the fairy tales which de- 
lighted our nursery, or expect tranquility in any place but a cloister?" 

Vibert's calls were repeated often, each one affording a pretext for another, and each visit growing 
longer than the last. The father of his two attractions was required frequently by his affairs in 
London, where he spent weeks at a time, and their mother was generally confined by delicate health 
to her chamber. Thus Vibert's intimacy with them had but little ceremony to restrain its rapid 
advancement ; and he soon felt, what has perhaps been felt by many, that the simple smile of the 
dignified and retiring is more perilous than the brightest glance of wit and vivacity. Indeed, Edith 
was too gay to be suspected of any thought beyond that of amusement ; but the actions of Marion 
were more measured, and her approbation was the more flattering. Vibert laughed when he en- 
countered the first; but his pulse beat quicker at the sight of the last. 

There seems in the affairs of the heart to be an unaccountable intelligence, by which, without the 
use of external signs, the tremors of the one generally find their reverberation in the other. Often 
as Vibert entered to share in the morning amusements of the sisters, to give an account of the horse 
that he was breaking in for Marion, or the dog that he was teaching antics for Edith, it was im- 
possible for him to be insensible to an increasing flush of satisfaction at his appearance, and by de- 
grees he gave up all other society, and had no pastime to which Marion was not a party. Both 
young, both interested in the other's happiness, it was not likely that they should reflect how the 
brightest flowers may be the seat of poison, and the sweetest moments the parents of miser}'. Their 
intimacy became more confidential ; and Edith left them more and more to themselves to seek 
amusement elsewhere. Still theie was no question of love. Vibert knew that, without fortune or 
expectations, he could have no jKetension to Marion : and that the number of her young brothers and 
sisters must render it impossible for her father to remedy the deficiency. It was then that he felt the 
extent of the sacrifice he had made in devoting himself so entirely to his uncle. Had he adopted any 
profession, he might have obtained a home of his own, to say the least ; and, however humble that 
home might have been, would Marion have shrunk from it 1 Would Marion have failed to make it 
the richest spot upon earth 1 He was yet only of an age when many commence their career ; his 
mind was too active and too brilliant to suffer his habits to become ao fixed but that he could turn 
them to any thing. He determined upon breaking the matter to his uncle; and, as Edith was now 
eighteen, and the sisters were just about to appear in public, there was no time to be lost. If Marion 
were not to go forth with a hand already engaged, what had he not to apprehend! Fortune and 
honors would be at her feet — friends would reason — parents might command — and what had she to 
reply 1 She loved an idler who lived upon another's bounty, and whose future means were some- 
thing worse than precarious ! He seized upon what he thought a good opportunity, the same 
evening. His uncle was enjoying his arm-chair and slippers beside an ample fire, to which the pat- 
tering of a November storm gave additional comfort. 

30 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

" Vibert,*" said he, " what have been youi adventures to-day 1" 

" I have been to Silvermere." 

« Folks tell me you have been there every day for the last twelvemonth — and who have you seen 

« I have seen Marion." 

" Well, nephew, she is good-looking, you say; and sensible, and all that. Why do you not marry 
her, and bring her home to make tea for us 1" 

" Alas ! I would willingly do so, had I the means." 

"We can get over that obstacle, I think, by doubling your allowance." 

" My dear sir, you do not undeistand its full extent. Marion's family would never consent, unless 
she were to be the mistress of an establishment of her own." 

« We can remedy that, too, Vibert. Divide the house with me at the middle of the cellar, and 
brick up the communications. Divide the stables and the horses ; have new wheels and new arms 
to the old family rumble-tumble, and make any farther arrangements you please. You have been a 
good boy, to bear with a crazy old man so long, and I should not like you to be a loser by it." 

" My dear uncle, there was no need of this additional generosity to secure my gratitude, and my 
endeavors to prove it. I did not speak for the purpose of placing any farther tax upon you, but merely 
to consult you whether it were not better that I thought of some profession, by which I might attain 
a position in Ufe not liable to reverse." 

"A profession! — what, one that would call you away from HazledelH" 

" I fear all professions would subject me to that affliction." 

The uncle's color rose and his brow darkened. 

" Vibert leave me in my old age, when I have become entirely dependant upon him ! Vibert knock 
away the only crutch that props me up from the grave — bequeath me to the mercy of hired servants, 
with not a soul to exchange a word of comfort with me ! What fortune could you obtain which 
would compensate for reflections like these 1 

" Stay, nephew, and see me into my grave — the reverse which you apprehend — I never thought 
that you could so coldly contemplate my extinction ; but it is right and natural that you should do 
so. Only stay — and I promise you that I will not keep you long — I will curtail my expenses, banish 
my few old friends, dismiss my servants, and live upon bread and water, to save what I can for you 
from the estate. I cannot cause it to descend to you ; but, at all events, I can save you as much as 
you would be likely to make by leaving me. Yet, if it be your wish to go, even go ; I had rather 
you would leave me miserable, than stay to wish me dead." 

The old man had worked himself into a fit of childish agitation, and Vibert saw that argument 
Avas useless. 

" Uncle," he replied, with a look and voice of despair, " make yourself easy, Marion will find 
another husband, who will perhaps render her happier than I could, and I will remain with you as 
I have done hitherto." 

From this time, Vibert spared no effort to overcome his ill-starred passion, as well for Marion's 
sake as for his own ; seeking every possible pretext to render his visits less frequent, and to pay them 
in company. Marion perceived the change at the moment it took place, and, although she could 
not dispute its propriety, her sensibility was v/ounded to the quick. She commenced her first round 
of provincial gaiety with a fever at her heart, and an ominous presage of sorrow. 

The appearance of the Silvermere party formed an epoch in the annals of the county — and, as 
Vibert had forseen, there was not a squire of the smallest pretensions who did not address himself 
sedulously to make th** agreeable to them. They had little encouragement, however, in their at- 
tempts, excepting from Edith. Her heart was free, and her tongue was full of joy ; but Marion was 
looking for the return of Vibert; and the reserved glance of her eye kept flattery at a distance, and 
hope in fetters. Still he returned not — she never met him in society, but she constantly heard of 
his having been at balls and merry-maldngs where she was not. It was in the vain pursuit of his 
peace of mind ; and she was too generous to attribute it to any thing else. On his occasional visits 
of ceremony she received him as if nothing material had happened ; but the flush was gone from her 
cheek, and the smile that remained was cold and sickly. 

Meantime, rumor was liberal in assigning to each of the sisters her share of intended husbands, 
Vibert listened to the catalogue with all the trepidation of a lover who had really entertained hopes, 
Alas ! if that selfish principle of denying to another what we cannot enjoy ourselves be excusable in 
any case it is so in love. The loved object which belongs to no other still appears to be in some de- 
gree our own ; and fancy conjures up, in spite of us, an indefinable trust in the future, of which the 
total destruction falls like the blow of an assassin. It was thus with Vibert, when, after writhing 
long in secret anguish at the mention of any name connected with that of Marion, report from all 
quarters concurred in the same uncontradicted tale. Marion was receiving the addresses of Marcus 
of Heroncliff : of him, for whom he had himself, from motives of the purest kindness, secured the 
good thoughts of her family — him whom he had made the confidant of his love — him who had pro- 
fessed himself to be only waiting for encouragement to throw himself at the feet of her sister ! That 
he should have met him daily, and never hinted at the change in his intentions ! Yet might it not 


have been that he feared to inflict piin 1 Tiiat he should have deserted Edith when his conduct 
had imphed all that was devoted ! Yet, was it not for Marion 1 But then, that Marion should have 
become the rival of her sister ! Yet, oh ! how soon she had overcome the remembrance of him, and 
how natural was it for the cold in love to become the faithless in friendship. Thus Vihert went on 
arguing for and against all the parties, and winding up with a forced ejaculation of — " It is nothing' 
to me — it is no atTair of mine." It was meant to confirm his pride, but only proved his wretched 

Upon this principle, and from a sense of his want of self-possession, the name of Marion nevet 
passed his lips in the presence of Marcus, who, on his part, was equally silent. 

The report upon which this conduct was adopted was not so destitute of reason as those which 
had preceded it. Marcus, with the failing already noticed, was incapable of being a true friend ; 
and, though at his first introduction at iSilvermere, the marked intelligence between Marion and 
Vibert reduced him to the necessity of devoting his attentions to Edith, yet the circumstance of her 
sister's preference for another was sufhcient to kindle in his heart the most burning anxiety to obtain 
her for himself. "Without considering Vibert's earlier acquaintance, he felt himself eclipsed, and his 
honor wounded. The moment, therefore, that his friend's visits were discontinued, his own were 
redoubled. They were naturally, from his previous behavior, laid by the family to the account of 
Edith; and, upon this conviction, Marion often used him as a protection against the advances of her 
unwelcome host of admirers. If she was asked to dance, she was engaged to Marcus ; and his arm 
was always ready to conduct her to her carriage. It was observed that she received much more of 
his attention than was bestowed upon her sister; and insensibly their manner in public became the 
practice in private, where there was no need for it. His hopes rose high, and he scrupled not to 
advance them by endeavoring to extirpate the last kind feeling which he thought might yet linger 
for poor Vibert. One while he affected chagrin, and invented excesses on the part of his friend as 
the cause of it : at another time he was incensed at injurious words, which he alleged to have been 
employed by Vibert towards heiself. At last, when he thought himself quite secure, he disclosed his 
passion, and was rejected with astonishment. 

The sting, for one like him, had a thousand barbs : he loved the beautiful Marion with all the 
energy of a soul which had never before loved a human being. Common report, and his confidence 
in her resentment against Vibert, had made him consider her as already his own. His triumph over 
all the competitors that he had feared, envied, and detested, was, as he deemed, on the eve of com- 
pletion ; and now he was to be the object of derision and mock pity ! The means which he had 
used to ingratiate himself would probably be divulged. The inmost core of his heart would be ex- 
posed and scorned ; and Vibert, whom he felt to be the latent cause of his rejection, was, perhaps, 
finally to be reinstated, and to flaunt his triumph daily before his eyes ! The very evils which bad 
minds have attempted to inflict upon others, become a provocation to themselves: they have been de- 
feated, and therefore they have been injured ; and the rejected suitor returned home pallid and quiver- 
ing with an ague fit of mortal hate. 

The attentions of Marcus had never been discussed between the sisters until the occurrence of this 
'catastrophe. He left them in a shaded alley of the pleasure-grounds, which were beginning to be 
strewed with the yellow leaves of autumn ; and a clouded sunset cast a few long streaks across the 
sward, and made the deep recesses look still more sombre. 

There are few who do not feel a melancholy peculiar to this period of the year. Marion had a 
double reason; for it Avas about the same time in the preceding autumn, and in the summer-house 
but a few steps before her that she had passed the last happy hour with Vibert ! 

" Marion," said Edith, as they walked on, with their arms fondly resting upon each other's neck, 
" you are not well. It is long since you were well ; but I had hoped that the attachment of Marcus 
would have dispelled a deep grief, of which you forbade me ever to speak. I trusted that your heart 
had been arrested in its progress of sorrow, and I was silent, lest you should think me jealous of my 
sweet rival." 

" Heavens ! that my apathy should have been so great as to mistake his intentions. I only bore 
with him because I thought him yours." 

" Marion, I never should have wished him loved by yoii, had I not felt that your life depended on 
the diversion of your thoughts. I have been mistaken ; you have been dying daily, and, unless you 
would have me die with you, let me write to Vibert. Sweet Marion, let me write, as from myself, 
in my own wild way, merely to bid him come and dance on my birthday." 

"No, Edith, no. He would suspect the reason; it is too humihating. I have still pride enough 
left to save me from contempt, if not to support me from Edith, let us talk of other things." 

She leaned her head upon her sister's bosom, and both were weeping, when they were startled by 
the gallop of a horse, and a ring at the garden gate. Edith saw that it was the servant of Vibert, 
and she sprang hke a fawn to inquire his commission. He brought a letter for Marion, and thus it 

" The relations who stood between me and the succession to the estates of Hazledell are deaa. I 
am now my uncle's heir; but I fear too late. The sorrow of withdrawing myself to my proper dis 
tance when I was poor is probably to be followed up by the anguish of being forbidden to return now 

TOL. T. — so. r. B 

32 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

that I am licb. I dare not appear before you till I hear the refutation of your reported engagements 
with Marcus — till you bid me look forward to a termination of the misery which a feeling of honor 
<2'bliged me to inflict upon myself." 

Marion sank for support against the ivy-twined pillar of the summer house. Edith kissed her pale 
«heek, and fondly whispered, " I told you so : what answer will you sendl" After the first moments 
of tremulous agitation — after an interval of silence, to lull the tumults of her heart, Marion merely 
ejaculated, " Poor Vibert ! I thought he had forgotten me !" 

"Bather say, poor Edith," replied her sister, with a burst of that natural gaiety which had of late 
almost forsaken her ; " poor Edith has now the willow-wreath all to herself. Alas ! for some 
doughty champion to twine it round the neck of the false lord of HeronclifT! 
" Here — here is a pencil — the servant waits for a reply." 

Marion tore the back from her letter, and wrote — " The reports are unfounded — the future is in 
3':our power." 

" Edith !" she said, when the messenger was dismissed, " give me your arm back to the house, for 
I feel faint. In the midst of all this happiness, there is a sickness at my heart — a strange boding, 
that I am only tantalized by chimeras, and meant for misfortune. Perhaps I deceive myself. Per- 
haps it is only the strange bewilderment occasioned by this revolution in all that interests me. I can- 
not help it." 

It was a gusty and querulous night. The old trees by their window groaned as though they were 
ia trouble, and the scud swept along the sky like a host of spectres, Marion's distressing fancies 
were not to be calmed, and grew even more excited by the restless and apparently preternatural 
spirits of her sister, who discussed their prospects in her wildest vein. She arranged that when 
Marien became the lady of Hazledell, she also was to call it her home, make herself the sole object 
of attraction and tournament to all the squires round about, and display her true dignity by remain- 
ing a scornful lady and a respectable maiden aunt. By degrees, her fancy ceased castle-building — 
■a few unconnected sparks of vanity grew fainter and fainter, and she dropped asleep. Marion had 
no wish or power to repose; her nervous sense of apprehension continued to increase; she tried 
every effort to direct her thoughts toother subjects, but they invariably became entangled, and again 
pressed with a dead weight upon her heart. In this mood she v/as startled by Edith laughing in her 
sleep, with a sound which terrified her. 

" Edith !" she cried, shaking her till she partially awoke ; " Edith — you frighten me — why do you 
laugh in your sleep V 

" I laughed," replied Edith, drowsily, and scarce knowing what she said, "I laughed at some one 
who preached to me of the vanity of human expectations." She again muttered a laugh, and a second 
iime diopped asleep. 

Notwithstanding the note of Marion, the night at Hazledell had seemed to bring with it a sense 
■of sadness, no less than it had done at Silvermere. Vibert's uncle had retired to rest with an ominous 
feeling of distress at the news of his deceased relations. After a while he had come back to shake 
hands with him again. The young ones, he said, were dropping about him, and leaving him desolate 
to lament the luckless humors which had impeded him from adding to their comforts as he might 
have done. Every joint of him trembled lest he should live too long. " God bless you, Vibert !" 
he added, " you have always been a good boy, and have borne kindly with my infirmities — God bless 
you ! God bless you ! Vibert, you will go to-morrow to Silvermere ? I have long prevented you 
from being happy, and you owe me no thanks that you arc so at last. Go to bed — you have grown 
thin from want of sleep ; and it is all my fault." 

He quitted him again with affectionate and almost childish reluctance ; and Vibert paced his room, 
in a fever of anticipation, till the rising of the sun, which had seemed as if it never meant to rise 
again. It was still too early to set out for Silvermere, but he knew that Marcus rose with the dawn 
for his field-sports, and his generous mind was unwilling to lose an instant in acknowledging and 
asking pardon for the suspicions which he had entertained of his friendship. He walked rapidly to 
Heroncliff, and found Marcus, as he had anticipated, up and dressed; in fact, he had passed the night 
■in the same manner as he himself had done, and his face looked haggard and wild. 
-" Marcus," said Vibert, " I come to tell you a piece of strange news " 

■■"J know it already," replied Marcus, with an attempt to look glad. " I met your servant going to 
'^SilvfiTOiere with it. Your uncles in India are dead." 

" I scarcely recollect them, and it would therefore be ridiculous to affect much grief for their loss; 
but the circumstance has been the means of showing me an injustice committed against yourself, at 
which I am sincerely grieved. I believed that you entertained an intention of supplanting me in the 
love of Marion; and although my reason had nothing to object to it, my heart felt that it was not 
the part which I would have acted towards you. I have accused you bitterly; but see, Marion has 
herself exculpated you ; and you must even forgive me as one who has been too unhappily bewilder- 
ed to be master of himself." 

Marcus took his offered hand and laughed, but with a fearful expression, which he strove to hide 
casting his eyes on the ground. 
-<' Then Marion," he observed, " looks forward to being the lad}' of Hazledell 1" 


"Ay, and to do the honors of it to her sister, the lady of Heroncliff. My son shall many your 
daughter, and we will join the estates in one." 

Marcus drew in his breath with a harrowing sound. 

" Vibert," he said, " we had best remain unmarried ; we are more independent to pursue our 
pastimes : we are not obliged to receive the society which is odious to us ; and, whilst we are free, 
we are the more welcomed abroad. Promise me you will think no more of it." 
■ " You would not ask it, if you felt, like me, that you were beloved by Marion. What do I care 
for independence and my reception abroad, when I have such a thraldom and such a paradise at 
home !" 

" You are determined, then ■?" 

" Can you doubt it 1 I am even now on my way to Silvermere. I should arrive too soon on 
horseback, and am therefore obliged to walk, for I cannot be easy till I find myself on my way 
thither. Come, take your gun, and accompany me." 

" I will accompany, in the hope of dissuading you, and bringing you back before you arrive there." 
" And I will drag you into fetters whether you will or not. Come ; it is time (o start, if we would 
be there by breakfast-time. What ails you 1 You look pale and shivering, this morning ; and see, 
for the first lime in your life, you have forgotten your gun." 

With that he kindly took it from where it stood, and presented it to him. 
" I will not take it," said Marcus, vaguely ; " I am nervous, and cannot shoot." 
" Tut, man ; take your gmi, I say ; a good shot will put you in spirits. There is an outlying deer 
from Hazledell in the Black Valley, and you must kill him for our wedding feast." 

Marcus bit his white lips, and did as he was bidden ; and the companions set out upon their walk. 

The weather was still gusty and uncertain. The faint gleam of the sun was rapidly traversed by 

the clouds, which seemed to overrun each other, in wild and fearful confusion. Several large trees 

■were blown across the pathways, and the crows skimmed aloft in unsettled course, as though they 

were afraid to perch. 

" How I love this bracing air !" said Vibert. " I feel as if I could fly." 

" You feel elastic from your errand. I have no such cause, and I would fain that the morning had 
been calmer. I think that long usage to blustering weather would have a strong effect upon men's 
passions, and render them too daring and reckless." 

As they descended the brow of fern and scattered plantations, from his bleak residence, his per- 
suasions that Vibert would return became more and more urgent. He used, in a wild, disjointed 
manner, all the vain arguments to which the selfish and the dissipated generally resort to dissuade 
their friends from what they call a sacrifice of liberty. They were easily overruled, and his agitation 
grew the more violent. In this manner they arrived at the entrance of the Black Valley, a gorge of 
rock, and varied earth, choked up by trees and bushes, chance-sown, by the birds and the winds. 
This valley was between two and three miles in length, its gloom was unbroken by a single habita- 
tion, and it had been the witness of many atrocities. It was a place usually avoided; but it was the 
shortest road to Silvermere, and Vibert never visited it by any other. 

" I do not like this valley !" said Marcus ; " we will take the upper road." 

" It is too far about — come on — you are not yourself this morning, and the sooner Edith laughs at 
you the better." 

They were making a short cut through the tangled thicket, from one path to another, and had 
reached a more gloomy and savage spot than they had hitherto encountered. Marcus sat down upon 
a piece of splintered timber, and motioned Vibert, with a gasping earnestness which was not to be 
disputed, to seat himself beside him. 

" Marcus," said the latter, as he complied, " your conduct is inexplicable. Why are you so 
anxious that I should not go to Silvermere, nor renew my acquaintance with Marion 1 You must 
have some reason for all this; and, if so, why conceal it from me 1" 

"If nothing short of such an extremity will induce you to follow my counsel, I must even come 
to it. Maiion is not what you have supposed her. You imagine that her love for you has kept her 
single. Ask of whom you will, if such be the general opinion. Till yesterday, she gave herself to 
another, who cannot aspire to a thousandth part of your merit, but who happened to be more favored 
by fortune. Last night, you became the richest, and she changed ; but would Vibert be contented 
with a partner who preferred another V 

" Marcus ! — this other ! It is of yourself you speak 1" 

" Ask all the world, if she did not make herself notorious with me. She made me distrust all 
womankind. Vibert, let us both leave her to the reflections of one who has deserved to be forsaken." 
" May it not be that you, and not I, have mistaken her 1 She might have preferred your company 
because you were my friend, and you might have fancied that she loved you because you loved her. 
It is needless to contradict me — men do not tremble and turn pale because their friends are going to 
marry jilts. I do not blame you; for not to love Marion is beyond the power even of fiiendship. 
Let us only be fair rivals, and not attempt to discourage each other by doing her injustice. Let us 
go hand in hand, and each prefer his suit. For my part, I promise you, that if you succeed, I will 
yield without enmity." 

34 burton's gentleman's i 

Marcus staggered as he rose. Vibert's countenance was grave but not unfrienJIy. 

" Go on then," said the former, in a deep broken voice, and with every feature convulsed ; at the 
same time, he turned himself homeward ; and Vibeit, seeing that it was advisable to part company, 
pursued his course towards Silvermere. Marcus made but a few strides and paused. He clenched 
his teeth, and cast a wild glance at his rifle — made one or two hesitating steps, and then bounded after. 

Long and intense was the watch which the sisters kept that morning in the direction of the Black 
Valley, but no one was seen to come forth from it. 

" In other times," said Marion, " Vibert could arrive to breaifast, and it is now long past noon." 

Edith was not mistress of the gay consolation which had so often turned a tear to a smile, and 
framed an excuse out of the wild and stormy weather, which it was evident her own heart could 
not admit. 

"He did not use to mind stormy weather," returned Marion. " Besides, we heard a shot fired, 
and we know that no one has the range of the Black Valley but Vibert and his friend Marcus." 

" It was, perhaps, only the cracking of some time-worn stem, giving way to the hurricane ; and, 
if it was a shot, we must take into consideration the peculiar nature of our cavaliers of the world, 
and make allowance for what they cannot help. How can we suppose that Vibert could pass the 
Badger's Bank without paying his compliments to the wild cat, or enjoying the shriek of the bird 
of prey that comes thither to tear his victim 1 He will be here to dinner, and make amends for his 
slowness by a strange tale of the wonders which caused it." 

" Edith, you are drawing the character of Marcus — this is not like Vibert." 

" Well, well, then — do not speak with such a tremor, and he shall be a bright exception ; and the 
only punishment he shall have is to be dismissed from your mind, just whilst I tell you why I have 
been thinking of the faithless Marcus. Do you listen 1 Yes. Why, then, dear Marion, I must 
have you guess the reason for my sage determination to obtain reverence as a maiden-aunt." 

" Edith !" 

" Yes, yes — I see you have guessed aright. 'Tis a false-hearted but, Marion, he was my first ; 

and to be deserted for you is not a crime which makes him an absolute monster. Come away from 
this window, and let us rest our eyes, for they have followed the battling of the kites and crows till 
Tve grow giddy, and dreamy, and fanciful. Come, come, my bride of Hazledell, and listen to the lost 
T?its of the soon undisputed pride of Silvermere." 

It was late in the day when they joined the rest of the family, and still no tidings had been heard 
of Vibert. There was a silence in the circle which proved that their uneasiness was not confined 
to themselves, and presently the consternation was completed by the mysterious countenance of a 
servant who called out his master. Marion and Edith clasped each other's neck in the sure presen- 
timent of something fatal. The truth was less cruel than their suspense, for though communicated 
with all the care and tenderness which its nature required, it left them insensible to the horrors of 
which they had been the victims. The sisters and the two friends were doomed never to meet again. 
The fate of Vibert had been discovered by the game-keepers as they were taking their evening round, 
by the spot where he had been left bleeding and breathless by the dastard hand of his rival. That 
of Marcus was best known to the fiends which pursued him. 

We will not swell our history with an account of all the gradations by which a thrilling horror 
may settle down to a calm and lasting woe. The first news which followed the foregoing events re- 
lated to Vibert's uncle. His infirm frame had sunk beneath his afiliction, and he lay in the family- 
vault beside his unfortunate nephew. Of Marcus, nothing had ever been heard. A stranger had 
been found, apparently self-destroyed, in a distant part of the country, but nobody had come forward 
to recognize him. There was, of course, a surmise that this might have been the fugitive, Marcus, 
and, whether true or false, he never gave grounds for any other. 

Years passed away, but the characters of Marion and Edith resumed no more their natural tone. 
The last was never seen to resume her smiles, nor the first drop a tear. Their feelings had been 
trampled down too rudely to spring again. What were their fates eventually is an inquiry of small 
importance — the history of their hearts is concluded. 


Though I may roam Italia's plains, 
And with her fairest daughters toy, 

"Whilst listening to their magic strains, 
My heart still whispers, " EUe me volt." 

And while in mirth's most joyous round. 

The happiest moments still I've found, 
Have been while thinking, " Elle me voit." 

Tho' gayest scenes my visions fill, 

And all my waking thoughts employ ; 
Tho' for a time I'm happy, still 

And gaiety that scarce can cloy, — I think and feel but, « Elle me voit." Fehd. 




This fire is in the peninsula of Apsclieron, twenty versts from Baku, and is justly called one of 
the wonders of southern Russia. I have visited this spot. It is a burning desert, from the surface 
of which subterraneous (lames here and there issue, which are occasioned by the exhalations of the 
naptha. Though this fire ma}- not be eternal, yet it is extremely old, for there are traditions of the 
origin of simiUar phenomena* in other parts; for instance, in the Ural, on the river Mangischlak, 
in the village of Sulp-Aul (v. Pallas) and that which I have seen in Wallachia, on the little river 
Slanika, near the village of Lapatar, on Mount Klaschna. But the origin of the fire in the neigh- 
borhood of Baku is buried in the obscurity of the remotest antiquity. 

The first appearance of this fire, in an age when the phenomena of nature were so little known 
and explored, might appear supernatural. It is well known that Media was the seat of Zoroaster's 
doctrine, and the introduction of those mysterious receptacles of the eternal fire, which the Maho- 
metans every where destroyed. Only the miraculous flame of Baku arrested the blind fury of the 
Mahometans. The temple consecrated to fire is still preserved by the remnant of the ancient Parsees, 
or fire-worshippers, who, though scattered over the immense tracts of Persia and India, come hither 
to perform the prayers imposed on them by their vows. This temple, however, is no beautiful 
specimen of architecture, but a simple stone square, in the centre of which stands the altar, from 
which issues the eternal fire. The flat roof is supported on four columns, from which a constant 
fire, conducted by tubes, likewise ascends. On thg roof, above the altar, is a fittle belfry. 

On dark nights this temple is descried even at a great distance, and is the more interesting and 
majestic in the eyes of the traveller, as the brilliant flame does not resemble Vulcan's destructive fire, 
but is like some mystei:ious phenomenon awakening sublime recollections of antiquity. 

Within the wall which surrounds the temple, there are some stone houses, and a small garden, 
the residences of eight Parsee monks."|- During the time of worship, they strike the bell once, 
generally on their entrance into the temple, and then prostrate themselves before the altar. After 
remaining for a pretty considerable time in this position, they arise, strike the bell once more, and 
then finish their prayers. They give the fire the firstlings of every sort of food. They eat no meat, 
and live entirely on vegetables. Their particular affection to animals is probably the cause of it ; the 
guardians of the Holy Fire keep a great number of dogs, which they treat as friends and companions. 

It is evident that they prefer their religion to all others, and consider themselves as purer than 
other men, because they are favored with the purest notions of the divinity. In conversing with 
persons of a different religion, they protect themselves by certain prayers, which they repeat in an 
under voice. They seemed much displeased when my companions weie going to dress their dinner 
at the same fire as theirs. To satisfy them, I had the kettle removed to another part. When they 
carried water near us, they always cried out, Brama, Brama, Brama, doubtless to counteract our 
influence upon it. Perhaps they have a particular respect for water; at least, in remote antiquity, it 
was considered, by many of the followers of Zoroaster, as a divinity. 

The atmosphere in the temple, and in the surrounding court-yard, is very warm, on which ac. 
count the monks wear a very light clothing. 

It is reported that the monks, in former times, frequently made singular vows; for instance, to re- 
main for several years in a constrained attitude, with their arms raised, oi holding up one foot, etc. 

* They originated, at no very distant period, by the lightning having rent the upper hard layer of 
the mountain, which made an issue for the inflammable vapors, and, at the same time, caused the 
flames to arise. 

-\ The Europeans call them, as well as all other fire-worshippers, Guebers ; which seems to be a 
corruption of the Persian word Giaur, by which they designate all those who profess a different re- 
ligion. They call the Russians, Sare-Giaur, or Sare-Guebr, i. e. light brown idolaters ; probably be- 
cause they observe fewer persons with black hair among them, than among the people of Asia. 


BURTON S gentleman's MAGAZINE. 

This, indeed, has ceased ; but they still endeavor, as they used to do, to prevent the women from ap- 
proaching the sacred fire ; probably, tliat their presence may not divert their attention. 

In every thing that surrounds them, these monks are very neat and cleanly. They have no su- 
perfluity, but poverty is unknown among them. Their cells are likewise lighted by the subterraneous 
fire; which is easily extinguished by covering the vent through which the gas issues. The verdure 
of the garden on the other side of the court-yard of the temple, and the delightful shade of the trees, 
afford these hermits a refreshing coolness. If superstition finds, in the evanescent flame, an object 
of adoration, no inconsiderable advantage is derived from the naplha, which is so common here, and 
in the neighborhood, and yields to the ciown an annual revenue of 200,000 rubles. 


Sat, lady, for whom is the meed of thy love. 

And the glance of thy languid eyes. 
Where beameth the soul of the sinless dove 
Ever gazing, at evening's hour, above 
Oa those of thy kindred skies I 

Is it for him whose fearless flight 

Is over the rolling sea — 
Who smiles on the storm, and braves the fight. 
And seeks, thro' the gloom of the wild-sea night, 

No beacon of love but thee 1 

Or is it for him whose warrior plume 

Is dabbled with crimson brine, — 
Who, thro' prairie battle and forest gloom. 
Wins laurels of bright immortal bloom 

To lay on thy beauty's shrine 1 

Or for him who holds the high debate 

In the nation's council hall, — 
Who, grasping at power and glory and state. 
Feels, deeply feels, that, tho' good and great. 

Thy guerdon is worth them all 1 

Is it for him who meets disease 

By palace or road-side cot — 
Who leaves his chamber of classic ease 
That the sigh, and the care, and the reckless breeze 

Of the world should reach thee not 1 

Or for him, who, full of Isaiah's fire, 

Tells of a holier sphere, 
Where seraph and saint and golden lyre 
Awaken the sweet celestial choir 

Inviting thy spirit there 1 

Or for him, the bard, who, by moonlight, strung 

His harp on lake or lea. 
While echo replied, as beauty sung, 
But who found, 'mid the fair, the gay, the young. 

No kindUng theme but thee 1 

Thus sang a young crusader, when the stars 
Of evening shone like gems on beauty's brow. 
The spirit of the night, in magic wrapp'd. 
Folded her wings to listen to the lay ; 

[ While, phrenzied with enjoyment, echo sprung 
From moss-grov/n couch, and breathed the spell- 
around ! 

To Zion's land, to free Christ's sepulchre, 
That youth withmarshall'd Christendom repair'd. 
Passion of soldier-fame, th' emblazon'd pomp 
Of Europe's multitudinous chivalry : 
Th' escutcheon'd banners thro' the royal camps j- 
The rich caparisoned steeds andjgallant knigh4&, 
With silken scarf, worn in fair ladye's bower ; 
The spirit-stirring trump ; the onward charge, 
And all the blazonry of Crusade war. 
But sent liis pilgrim spirit back again 
To warm Italia's land of song and love^ 
And gentle Isabel's rewarding smilci. 

Absence is but love's life to faithful hearts, 
Which, as the tie that links two parted doves> 
Vigor derive from distance. But the joy 
She fel: ia hearing how the banner cross 
Was, by Vincenzio, wav'd from Zion's walls. 
Refused her soul to contemplate the deed 
And yet outlive the rapture. 

She expired! 

A war-worn figure droops o'er yonder grave, 
Where streamlets, murmuring, glide and willows' 

It is Vincenzio ! not the cavalier 
Whose victor-shout burst on the Paynim's ear. 
Or turned his lute to love for Isabel 
On moonlight lake or in romantic dell. 
No, but Vincenzio of the tearful heart, 
To which no Hope sweet balsam can impart ; 
Nightly he seeks that grave-spot, cold and deep. 
Where Death and Beauty in dark wedlock sleep ; 
And all the warmth that urged the warrior's brow 
Dwells there, alas, in furrowing rain-clouds now. 
Thus teaching us that love's the only light 
To guide us thro' this sublunary night ; 
And hope, with beacon smile, to shine afar 
On worlds whose joys no earthly ills can mar — 
Bright, mystic, pure, celestial realms of soul. 
The sage's wonder and the christians's goal. 
Philadelpha, Jan: 24th, 1839. SIGMA- 



chapteh I. 


It was a soft evening in May, 1812, when Catharine Harman, a laJy of noble bearing, and iffl 
perial beauty, was stioUing in a grove of oaks that ornamented the grounds of a mansion on' the 
banks of the Chesapeake. Far beyond the share of the most favored was the lovehness of the lady, 
and the fairest of her sex in her charming presence, might have wondered at nature's partiahty. 
Apparently the showers of but eighteen springs had freshened the bloom of her beauty, yet the next 
evening her twentieth birth-day was to be commemorated at the noble mansion of her family. 
Fairer than all the lover dreams of paradise was the exquisite symmetry of her person. The outline- 
was swelling round, and softly undulating as if finished by angels from heaven's rarest models. At 
rest, the matchless proportions were health and beauty deified ; but in motion, best was their won- 
derful loveliness developed. And her walk had the imposing dignity of the high dama nurtured in 
the olden courts of lady-love and troubadour, combined with the elegant, the tripping simplicity of a 
Hebe. She stepped — oh ! she floated, joyous and inspired, as if to the voluptuous melody of an Ita- 
lian opera ; and as her elegant figure, traced so faint, yet so roundly full, in a rich close robe of the 
times, swept the long grass, noiseless as the sailing albatross, and wound among the whispering trees 
as a virgin cloud from the court of the moon, a painter might have sketched the portrait of a celes- 
tial huntress alighting in her groves. Her ankle and foot — for ah ! there is a dangerous coquetry 
in a pretty foot — small, and charmingly shaped — the indispensable of womanly beauty — were 
barely seen ere they vanished in their mysterious ambush, as if one glance were enough to enchant. 
Her face ! alas ! the artist's finest touch were even Apollo the artist, could not breathe its passicii, 
its divinity ; to look on it were to wither the heart, and give memory immortality. It was not the 
cherubic laughingness of the playful girl, but the matured, the superb, and fascinating loveliness of 
the woman. 

Her complexion was that happiest union of color, seen only in female cheeks and in the pei-fec?- 
tion of painting — the softest blending of the lily and the rose — yet it rivalled the fairest lily or the 
richest rose. Her head was of splendid mould, and hex forehead high and queenly. A few shoit 
curls clustered like the locust flowers on its ravishing fairness ; and waving masses of dark brown 
hair, straying in ringlets from under a jewelled clasp, flung their wild profusion over a neck of snow, 
and a bosom whose faultless contour rivalled the proudest creations of the Grecian chisel, in whicfi 
nothing of beauty or grace is unfinished. That glossy, voluptuous hair, was like the luxuriant sea- 
grass in the mermaid's bower, floating over, yet slyly showing its virgin pearls. 

The jetty eyebrow was pencilled with the rainbow's curve; her lashes were long, black, and ex- 
quisite ; and there was that thrilling and mystic depth of soul in her lustrous black eyes which the 
flower of nature's nobility only have. By turns they were soft as the houri's glance — by turns they 
flashed as the moonlit-rill, or beamed with the still enthusiasm of the stars. Truly the eye is the 
mirror of woman, for its reflection is mystery ; even in sleep it has a spell we dare not trust. 

The nose was strictly Grecian — that classic inheritance of so many fair claimants ; the sunny, 
oval cheek vvas a delicious repose of blushes ; and the round superb chin, when drawn proudly up, 
was slightly doubled. But her scarlet lip of scented ripeness — ah ! there was a witchery there that 
mocks the power of pen. Even anger cannot rob a woman's lip of its magic, for in its pout there rs 
death to the young heart. In jo3'ous love, it is a cradle of smiles tempting an impassioned caress — 
a fount of delicious nectar intoxicating to sip — or rather it is the honeyed altar of passionate love. 
But in offended pride and bridling beauty, how ravishing its toss, its quiver ! The lips of the dan- 
gerous Catharine Harman wore the softest smile, the rosiest pout, the proudest cuil, and in their ver- 
milion shadow were arrayed a set of teeth whiter than the foam of the sea. 

The expression of her countenance was difficult to define. In pensiveness, it was poetry in its 
richest garb ; in animation, it copied the wave of the laughing lake ; and, again, it wore that lofty some- 
thing, that hauteur perhaps, that springs from a noble and cultivated intellect ; but at times its. 

38 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

wondrous meaning was as changeful and exhaustless as the picture of the cloud in the rippling 
spring. Her face was a gay masquerade of expression. 

A child of sorrow was this beautiful being — amiable as she was lovely, yet unfathomable in a 
passing acquaintance. Outwardly lively and dashing, she was one of that strange few who, when 
they list, can stand calm, dark, and unread under the scrutiny of the world, 

Grief has been said to exert a chastening influence, but some'imes it nurtures dangerous predis- 
positions — but of this again. At the age of fifteen, Catharine Harman had lost a sainted mother. 
Two years after, an only brother, led by that fever of travel and adventure so seducing to youth, had 
left his home, and been killed in a duel in a distant state. His blooming sister was left with but two 
relatives on earth — a passionate indulgent old father, and a portionless male cousin, two years her 
junior, who was avi-ay at college. 

The fair Kate Harman h id been brought up a pretty pet, which is to say that she was self-willed, 
though, like many pets, her heart was in the right place. The rose that flowers in a garden of 
weeds is the sweeter by contrast, for it is at once associated with some inherent excellence which 
defied neglect. So with the happy pet, whose innate goodness cannot be spoiled by parental indul- 
gence. By natural consequence of her rearing, Catharine was somewhat of a coquette. Start not ! 
nor cross thyself, guileless reader, for thou art generous, and coquettes are a much abused race. 
What a brilliant world of song and loveliness, of sighs and smiles, of tears and thrilling tones, of wild 
reproach, sweet repentance, and eloquent sorrow arc embodied in that single name of coquette ! At 
once the delighted fancy pictures a superb and accomplished female luxuriating in the " purple light 
of love." The very name implies beauty, talent, and amiability ; in that these alone win admiration, 
and by these only will gentlemen admit they are conquered. That wretched ambition, which pub- 
licly displays the peacock's feathers, is not the intoxicating play upon hearts of a beautiful and po- 
lished woman. The firat is the toy of vanity — the other, the innocent love of being loved — an evi- 
dence at once of overflowing kindness. This is the pleasing diflercnce between the painted flirt and 
the witching, glorious creature who coquettes from conscious nobleness — claiming homage as the 
prerogative of her heavenly nature. If her smile is a lure, (sure it is a pious fraud to lead mortals 
to heaven !) it honestly shows the gilded barb, and adoring man takes it with a rapture which 
breathes, " 'tis delicious to yield when angels tempt." Nothing in this world is half so harmless and 
unasking as love ; emotion so gentle and so gratuitous, cannot fiiil to awaken a regard in its object, 
thus bringing into play commendable exorcises of feehng. Females delight in the gentle charge of 
heartless coquette. 

Now, coquetry in a cottage proves at once that it is natural ; and, zounds ! who, in this christian 
age, will say that adored woman shall be rifled of her birthright 1 Rivalry is the soul of love, as 
jealousy is its test ; and tiie real lover of a dashing coquette feels a delicious uncertainty which 
teaches him truly to value her. He must be a happy man, who is loved by one of these captivating 
beings ; there must be — oh, there is — an intensity of devotion in the love that prefers him to the 
world of its choice. Vanity — than which no feeling is more slandered and more disinterested — 
shares the giddy triumph. To think that she is the queen of hearts, and he the queen's king ! Many 
may have heard the story of Oian al Bekar, who was the devil amongst women — a very prince of 
coquettes — and Zelirc, his queen. They reclined in a nuptial bower, and the prince whispered — 
" You are beautiful, Zelire, and love me ; I am happy, for all men envy me," and he kissed his de- 
lighted bride. " You love me, Oian," murmured she, "and I am happy, for all women envy me." 
Can a prospect of domestic felicity be more flattering 1 

To the belle in polished, or perhaps artificial society, coquetry is an armor of security — one of the 
acquired luxuries of society. Tears are a woman's weapons with her husband, sighs with her lover, 
but she must fight the cruel world with coquetry. There is less of the amiable weakness in the 
other sex, from lack of power ; for, alas, they all would if they could, and do as they can. Where, 
then, is the credit of good motives for its condemnation by gentlemen 1 Ladies seldom cast the 
charge on one another. 

Star-gazers may have seen before now a gay, innocent-looking cloud suddenly darken and shoot 
forth lightning which it seemed too gentle to have harbored. So it was sometimes with Catharine 
Harman, To look on her faultless face, one would have never thought it passion's throne, yet she 
had that flavor of prettiness called " temper." There is something " interesting," highly so, in the 
female of holy placidity of disposition — one whose spirit glides unruffled along the calm tide of the 
ocean of life, and floats into port without a gun or a flag. How sweet, how heavenly ! — yes, a little 
too much so for this world. That " interesting" is an equivocal compliment, at best. Give me the 
woman who has a leaven of mortality ; a spirited girl, who will bridle up and argue, for nothing is 
so surpassingly delightful as the making up of a lovers' quarrel. A lake, sheltered by mountains, is 
very pretty, and all that, in its sweet repose ; but w ho delights not more in the sea — the wild, ma- 
jestic, beautiful, and laughing sea — which also has its hours of bewitching rest 1 Oh ! the .spice of 
"variety ! 

Well, Catharine, in addition to the sin of coquetry, had tempei. Yet there was but one chord, 
waking but one tone, to but one touch. The untimely and mysterious end of her brother had 
wrought a perilous effect on her sensitive nature. Few feelings are so beautiful as a sister's love — 


trusting as the dove in kindness returned, and, like the dove, unmurmuring in neglect. Its influence 
is holy and lasting ; for kw brothers of amiable sisters are ever unkind to the sex. But this theme 
is for gifted pens. Catharine Harman had loved her brother Charles with an intensity equalled only 
by its return. At the restless age of eighteen he had left his paternal roof with a hard wrung con- 
sent, and the first news of his wanderings was that he had fallen in a duel at New Orleans. Mourn- 
ful is the grief for the wanderer whose eyes are closed by strangers' hands, for it has no consolation. 
It seems so hard to be robbed of the last look, the parting message, of those who are dear. Had 
his sister drunk his last sigh, and planted the willow on his youthful grave, tears had been a luxury ; 
but as it was, memory had no farewell look or word to cheer its melancholy. The glad stream that 
has been dammed across, is slow and silent, yet at some time it will burst the barrier that gave it 
strength. As Catharine brooded over her brother's death, a new and powerful passion crept over 
her young heart — an unyielding abhorrence of duelling and duellists. This strong and absorbing 
feeling lit up disdain in her glance, and lent her tongue the withering eloquence of passion at the 
name or sight of a duellist. Each blighting sarcasm was an expiation to the shade of her brother. 
At such moments, how different was she from the winning Catharine, the courteous and animated 
belle ■? 

Gifted, accomplished, and wealthy ; at home in the graceful dance, or waking the melody of Eu- 
terpe from her harp ; the light of the gay saloon, and the toast of the private circle ; it was not won- 
derful that this brilliant favorite of nature should exercise the dangerous power of her inheritance. 
Many a conquered youth had knelt impassioned at the shrine of her beauty, and thought himself 
blessed with a tear of pity. The rich and powerful had courted her alliance ; but, with the air of 
an empress, she answered, " My liberty is dearer than thou." 

But the fair Kate has been walking all this time in the grove by herself. She neared the skirt 
of the wood that sloped to a grassy bank, and flung its image on the tide. Leaning on the trunk 
of an ample oak, while the leaves of a pendent bough were wooing her lips and ringlets, she put on 
a poetical face, and gazed musingly on the water. 

The scene was brilliant and beautiful. Mysteriously charming it is to trace the landscape's sha- 
dow pencilled bright as its copy in the waveless tide. Fair earth is a vain baggage, and delights to 
take a peep at herself, as some pretty school giil, who carries a mirror in her bosom to dress her 
ringlets by. There, curiously inverted in that glorious bay, stood every quiet tree and yellow cliff, 
the setting sun, the anchored clouds, and the bandit fish-hawk watching still by his naked nest. It 
was nature sketching her own portrait from her looking glass. Far from the shore, hung dizzily be- 
tween two heavens, sat a slight pilot schooner, raking true to her own weblike outline, on which she 
rested keel to keel. Here and there a stout bay craft was dozing on the crimson couch, and a thin 
column of smoke curled up amidships. At the distance of a mile, a gay looking ship, the palace of 
the cabin-king, appeared dotted with painted ports, and her sails and colors hanging sleeping in 
their pride. The sailor's favorite lay, " the girl I left behind me," wandered from the rigging to the 
shore, plaintive as an unheard farewell. Far down, a long low point stole away into the channel, 
with its sentinel lighthouse stark at the end; and, beyond, the blue Chesapeake rolled his funeral 
tide till sky and sea were blended in the enchantment of distance. Around the embowered man- 
sion a profusion of trees flung the mingled shade of the classic elm, the collonaded poplar, the whis- 
pering locust, and the lordly oak. Rows of white outhouses glanced among the foliage ; and, around 
the neat negro quarters, troops of noisy young " tow heads" were gamboling with dogs of all de- 
grees. Near by, an orchard of choice and various fruit was sending an odorous tribute to the sky ; 
and a spacious garden on the southern wing, with its jetting fount, its silver rill, and vine-clad bow- 
er, its winding walks, and delicious shrubbery, spoke the culture of a refined and finished taste. 
From a flowering lawn to the bay, there stretched a beautiful grove of oaks, the play ground of a 
pair of fawns, and the favorite stroll of their lovely mistress. It was a striking and animated picture 
,of southern comfort and elegance. Over all, the setting sun brushed his burnished mantle, for he is 
a rare and skilful artist. The exquisite blending of ray and shade, the light in gay reUef, and the 
mystic tints of the far blue hills, are each and all his patent of matchless artistry. 

That flow of soft delight which lovely scenery awakens in the gifted mind, stole over the lady as 
the floating serenade of the lute, and she murmured, " it is beautiful." 

" The scene," answered a low and melodious voice, " is insipid, for beauty is by comparison. An 
angel is an angel only on earth, in heaven she is but a woman. This scene is dull, for its charms 
have fled to deck a fairer shrine. Nature is jealous of you, peerless Catharine, as your music master 
was when his fair pupil excelled him." 

A graceful foim of rounded eighteen was bending before her, and a sad and handsome face beamed 
upon the startled lady. She knew him not, and the stranger enjoyed her confusion with silent va- 
nity — for there is a singular delight in the incognito of one returning among his friends after an ab- 
sence of years. No youth, especially at such a time, can bear to be saluted with familiar recogni- 
tion. That careless " how are you] why you have not changed much," is chilling enough to the 
fancied unknown. A stare and a distant bow are the most subtle flattery- — for vanity reads in them 
a change of personal appearance — for the better of course. Thus it may have been in the present 
TPt. y. — \o. r. B 2. 

40 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

instance, and the youth looked at Catharine, as she thought, with provoking impudence — but then 
he was so handsome I 

"And I," again spoke the stranger, folding his aims, and bowing his head in eloquent melancho- 
ly, "have mused for years on that only balm of absence, remembrance of the loved, to find that I 
am forgotten. Would for his peace that Walter de Berrian were blessed with his cousin's forgetful- 

" Walter, Walter ! my own dear cousin, I did not know you," exclaimed Catharine, quite taken 
by delightful surprife, as she extended her hand, and almost herself. In another moment she re- 
tired, sweetly confused, before the trembling and grateful gaze of the youth. iiThe easy belle was 
abashed, and theie was mischief in her soft confusion. The young man at her side was an orphan, 
tinder the guardianship of her father. Four yeais ago he left for college, a bashful stripling, whom 
his wild romping cousin had often kissed just to see him blush. She had read his letters, breathing 
a poetry of feeling which she could scarcely realize from the pen of the retiiing Walter. But Catha- 
line was flashing on her career of beauty and triumph, and seldom thought of her absent cousin, un- 
less with a wonder of ideal interest. He stood beside her now an elegant gentleman, with thought 
upon his brow, and soul in his sad black eye — her equal in knowledge and mind — for a moment the 
change embarrassed her. 

" Your hand only !" ejaculated the young De Berrian, in strangely musical tone, as the blushing 
lady drew back. " This is a cold meeting — a slander to our heart. Why, my cousin, if wc art glad 
to meet, should our joy be locked in this unmeaning shake? Why not lake counsel of our feelingsl" 

" I do," she answered, with a pretty curtesy. 

" We did not meet so once, Catharine, nor is this the greeting of kindred spirits — excuse me for 
complimenting myself." 

" Oh sir, since you are so disinterested, you are welcome to my share of the compliment. But 
•what of our meetings oncel I have'nt any memory ; you know when I used to climb that cliffyon- 
der for the flowers on its brink, while you were praying me to come down, I never looked behind, 
it made me giddy." 

"Ah it is true of all conquerors that they drown the cries of the wounded in the music of victory. 
But I meant, dearest cousin, that our hands formerly met after our lips — thinking they were safe in 
so innocent an example," returned Walter doubtfully. 

" Why then,'' answered the laughing belle, " you were a sly pretty boy, and I, a little woman, 
for I had already broken some dozen of hearts, and worn as many miniatures. But now you have 
grown so tall and handsome, with such meaning in your eyes — I — you would not have your cousin 
kiss a man"!" 

"No, loveliest girl! Never may that monster of beard and brutality wound my cousin's cherry 
lips. Reserve their dew and breath for the caress of thy softer sex and the warm touch of adoring 
boyhood. I am just eighteen," and, as the pleasing Walter spoke, his arm warily circled the round 
waist of the half-willing Catharine, and, amid slaps and stifled screams, he sought her averted lips. 
After a tantalizing chase, he snatched a lily hand from over the blushing fugitives, and printed upon 
them a long, delicious kiss. 

"How da:e you sir?" demanded Catharine, drawing up her pretty chin. 

"I am dying — my Ufe is the forfeit of my rashness." 

" See what you have made of my hair, you impudent boy !" she said with a fatal glance, as she 
shook out the disordered tresses. 

The youth stood as if he had suddenly waked in the bower of a Peri : and well might the exqui- 
site being before him have brought in question the reality of sight. The rich blood was planting 
roses in her superb cheeks, and through the splendid curls, that showered over hex face, he saw a 
pouting lip and a witching eye. 

" Saint Mary !" whispered De Berrian, as if he feared to frighten the vision, "what crime, fairest 
exile, did you commit in Heaven ?" 

" Theft sir," she returned with a penitent sigh. "It is my only fault; I stole Cupid's arrows." 

" Then it is no mystery that they never wound yourself," said Walter, recovering his mortality. 
" Fatal hirntress ! now that the stolen quiver is nearly empty, in that you have more heaux than ar- 
rows, you kill with the more deadly artillery of your eyes. Such is the boasted progress of refinement. 
Yet spare a triumph so poor as I ! Fire not from that murderous ambush again. The next glance 
■will read the treasured secret of years," and his head fell mournfully upon his bosom. 

" Oh ! is there a casket there that will hold a secret so long ? Give it to me, my own kind cou- 
sin, and I won't look death at you again," and she leaned imploringly on his arm. 

" It is yours, my adored Catharine," he murmured low and passionately, " I love you." 
" Love me ! I hope you do: I would not have a cousin that did not love me," She looked the 
sweetest surprise, and turned a demure face to the perplexed youth. 

"Roguish counterfeit, and ridiculous me !" thought he, "I must pretend innocence too. The 
surest lure for a butterfly is a painted rose." De Berrian had read much, seen much, and thought 
more. His fancy was rich, and his conversational powers of the first order. He adverted to the 
beautiful scenery aroimd them, and, insensibly, Catharine was drawn from her perfection of sim- 


plicity. Her gifted cousin was spieading a rare repast with a tasteful hand, and she partook with 
kindred enthusiasm. They descanted on the "beauties of nature," "painting," and " music," and 
wept over "poetry" and tlie "jp thetics." The cousins were shining in a new and dazzling hght. 
They were surprised at the extent of their powers, delighted with themselves, and with each other. 
Love, in the natural order of events, was the next theme, and they both seemed awaie of the law,, 
for Walter was trembling, and playing with hu unsuspecting little hand, and Catharine gave her 
head the ndke droop to one side, and looked delightfully simple, 

" To me," said Walter with a speculative air, " it is inscrutable that actions and feelings should 
contradict each other. In this I am unblest, for my tongue is the confidant of my heart, which, as 
with your sex, means, that it keeps secrets by calling in assistance. Now, m.y cousin, I love you — 
see how my tongue betrays its faith — do you love me.^" 

" Why what do you take me for, Walter 1 Do not the laws of Lsaven and earth command us to 
love our relatives]" 

" Why will you not understand mel" he asked, with a passionate vehemence. " My love, beau- 
tiful woman, is not that calm, unanxious instinct of kindred. (Dh ! it is the freshest dew of the soul 
falling on its favorite rose ! Catharine, we were children together, and the youngest tendril of the 
vine circles the nearest flower, and it never loosens its clasp for another." 

" Beautiful," she interrupted, with enthusiasm ; " but the vine grows, puts forth other tendrils, andr 
the youngest is first to decay, while the poor flower has long since perished in its withering clasp. 
Heaven save this frail flower from such keeping !" 

" They died faithfully together — an emblem " 

" But I don't want to die, dear, I'll tell you, skeptic — I named a wreath of flowers, " love," and 
threw it on the stream of isles in our garden. It floated gayly on, coquetting with every wave and 
bough, lingering a while on the golden sands of a flowered islet, and gliding away with a promise 
to come back A fairer spot was ever in view — some far sweet isle, in the majesty of distance, 
wi'ched the loitering voyager along, till the poor withered thing of vanity was stranded on a bub- 
ble. First love may be sincere while it lasts, but the same beauties of person and mind, by the 
same impulse, will charm in another. Absence conqueis love by love's own weapons." 

"Thank you, sweet coz, for the lesson you leach; for, since my idol is the fairest and best, my 
faith will never be tempted." 

" Mine is not equally guarded," she rejoined laughing, " or rather I never loved. I don't believe 
in that lisping romance of the nursery. I have frailties enough." 

" Frailties!" said De Berrian shoitly." I cannot understand that senseless afTectation which can 
name the noblest passion in the gift of heaven a frailty. Yet listen, Catharine," he softened as he 
lip put on its haughtiness, " I know that you are kind and gentle as your fawns, for the child ne^ 
ver forgets the playmate of his cradle. Your bosom thrills with sympathy at the tale of sorrow, and 
that liquid eye is lit with heaven's light when virtue triumphs. Surely love would sue to nestle in 
a heart like yours. Ah! there is a remembrance, sweet with the fragiance of other years, which 
bids me speak. Here, under these trees, we have woven the blue hare-bells together, and you have 
sportingly kissed me ! O then, even then, I could have held your soft sweet lips to mine, and wished 
that moment eternity. Then I learned to adore you, and if there is one feeling unmixed with self, 
one trait that hallows frailty, it is the delicious love of early years, which blooms and smiles when 
the head is white, and the eye rayless. From birth my nature named you happiness, my honor was 
woven with you as glory, and my young ambition saw in you its heaven. Mine is the love that 
loves but once, and mine I offer thee." 

" Thank you," answered the beauty, in a rapture of modesty. " How proud I am of my cousin— 
so eloquent, so tender. I am in torment to show my triumph." 

" Is this your answer 1" demanded Walter, hastily, 

" What is the question, sir 1" 

" Do you love me 1" 

" That's not fair," she returned, sweetly ; " do you love we?" 

" Oh ! devotedly, my first and fairest," and he caught her hand, 

" Not so fast," she exclaimed, pretending surprise ; " the first flowers of spring are fairest and 
frailest, too. Your ofl'er is painful and unexpected ; speak of it no more." 

Yet Catharine felt proud, gratified at his long cherished aflfection, which, as a romping, teazin^ 
girl, she had slyly seen in a thousand adoring looks and silent rambles. As a lovely and winning 
belle, there lingered amid all her giddy triumphs a tender interest for her pensive cousin. His love 
she felt was a feeling tribute to her worth, and then he was a proud and portionless orphan. But 
it would never do that the hunted coquette should be won so easily. She would not admit to her- 
self that she loved him ; yet, as she stole a look at his faultless figure and handsome face, eloquent 
with vexation and disappointment, something whispered—" If ever I should love, my noble cousia 
will be the happy raa.n," 

To be eontinued.J 


Thet call me cold and passionless — ah ! little do they know 
How deep and strong the cuirenl is that silently doth flow ; 
The babbling brook and rivulet in noisy murmurs plash, 
And loud the mountain torrent's heard from rocky height to dash ; 
But plainly are the pebbles seen those streamlets murmur o'er, 
And soon is dried the rocky bed whence broke that torrent's roar. 

But give to me — for unison itholdeth with my soul — 

The rivei's calm and noiseless, yet never ceasing roll ; 

The proudly firm and onward pour of waters on their course, 

Alike unchecked by luring smiles, as unrestrained by force, 

That kisses now the flovv'ery bank, the drooping willow steeps, 

Unchanged then past the castle's base, through frowning ravine sweeps. 

They call me cold and passionless — ah ! little can they tell 
Beneath the mountain's cheerless side how many a spring may well, 
Whose sweet refreshing waters, found by some divining rod. 
Gush up to cool the parched brow, make glad the valley sod 
Give nurture to the wa\ing grove, and blooming fragrance spread 
Aiound the path that beauty loves at even tide to tread. 

How many a flower of loveliness by nature's left alone, 

To add its sweetness to the air, from yonder cliff's high throne ; 

How many a gem of brilliancy, new lustre that would give 

To kingly crown or diadem, in cavern dim doth live, 

And waiteth but to answer back the torch's intruding ray, 

Or flash and sparkle in the full and glowing blaze of day. 

They call me cold and passionless — because I will not bow 

At beauty's shrine the stubborn knee, nor veil the careless brow ; 

Because my heart no altar is, whereon to sacrifice 

To every lip where wreathed in smiles a subtle Cupid Ues, 

To every eye from which may gleam a passion-kindled glance. 

To every form that gi-aceful floats adown the mazy dance. 

Yet can I worship Woman with intensity of one 

Who feels her power, and boweth as the heathen to the sun — 

Who knows that life would be a cold, a dark and dreary night, 

But that her smiles are round him warm — her presence ever bright; — 

Who feels his soul would be like some unstrung and silent lyre, 

Did not her breath awake its tones and every note inspire. 

They call me cold and passionless — because they cannot read 

In every changing lineament the foreshade of each deed ; 

Because the burning feelings that my inmost bosom fill — 

The thoughts that glow within my breast, in every heart gush thrill — 

Do not, in outward form and look, their secrets stern enrol. 

While he that runneth by may read — a light emblazoned scroll. 

And yet my soul resembles oft some cavern hidden deep 
Beneath the calm and careless earth, where pent up thundefs leap, 
Where passion's bubbling lava boils and hisses in its rage. 
Where lightnings whirl in fearful dance, and fires volcanic wage 
A fretful war against the chains too firmly that do bind. 

And hold their chafing elements obedient to the mind ! E. Gt K. 

Philadelphia, May I4tb, 1839. 







" CuESE the pale faces !" exclaimed a tall Indian who stood upon a ledge of rocks which jutted 
over a dark ravine, down which the mountain current whirled with the rapidity of an arrow, sound- 
ing like the deep and dull rumbling of distant thunder, and throwing up the spray in hazy wreaths 
which almost reached the ledge upon which the Indians stood. 

" Curse the pale faces ! dost thou think I can be subdued by the cubs whose dams I prostrated 
at my feet !" He who spoke was a tall Indian of a herculean mould, with a high and expansive 
forehead, and a pair of dark eyes, which glistened like the mountam tiger's as he spoke. His fea- 
tures were sharp and sternly set, while his shaggy eyebrows were natm-ally drawn down over his 
eyes, which gave to his features an ascetic expression not very prepossessing. The Indian to whom 
he addressed the expression, was a small man, with a narrow receding forehead, dark fieiy eyes, and 
a countenance the unnatural distortions of which, when he spoke, would lead a physiognomist into 
the mdubitable belief that this delectable individual might be one of that number whose qualms of 
conscience for evil deeds might be too frequent. The large Indian gritted his teeth as he finished 
speaking, and brandished his tomahawk towards fort Duquesne with a fearful vigor, which, with the 
dark scowl upon his face, caused the smaller Indian to recoil with fear. 

" 'Tis even so," at length spoke the latter, in a dry guttural voice. " The cubs have grown in 
strength, till they have risen to sweep us from the earth ; already have they encroached into our 
hunting grounds, and om- game is daily becoming less beneath their fiery weapons." 

" Let them grow ! the taller the tree grows, the easier 'tis blown dowTi by the wind," said 
Pontiac, (for it was he,) who gazed so intently in the direction of fort Duquesne, as not to observe 
the countenance of the dwarf Pishairo, which assumed a sinister smile, while his small bright eyes 
glittered like the enraged snake when he watches in the grass for his prey. " 'Tis said the pale war- 
rior would wed the daughter of Pontiac ; has the news yet reached the ear of ovur sachem 1" 

" The sachem glared upon the dwarf as if he wonld fathom his inmost thoughts, while the 
bitter smile which had spread over his features suddenly passed off, and a demure composure was 
the only expression observable. " Hast thou been among the pale faces contrary to my wishes 1 if 
so, better hadst thou be a snake than Pishairo," said the chief sternly through his clenched teeth, as 
he continued gazing upon the countenance of the dwarf. " Speak ! how comest thou by this idle 
talk, which would better become one of thy own kind than me V 

" I have sought thee, Pontiac, for my breast is burdened with news. Listen ! As the sun was 
sinking behind the mountain, and ere the birds had ceased their warbling, I beheld the pale face in 
his canoe, which he plied silently, scarcely disturbing the dark shadows in the waters as he passed ; 
he landed, and with the stealthiness of the wild cat, when he crawls upon his prey, mounted he the 
green bank which rises by thy mountain wigwam ; he gained the top — a low cry, and thy dark-eyed 
daughter " 

The fierce sachem sprang upon his feet, and fixing his fiery eyes upon the dwarf, drew back 

44 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

his long spear, as if in tHe act of hurling it, while the informant crouched clo^r to th rock beneath 
which he sat. 

" When the Ottawa sachem discovers Pishairo's tongue forked lUie the subtle snake's, then let 
him strike the base blood from his heart," and the dwarf laid his hand upon his bosom, and gazed 
steadfastly upon the chief, who, after scrutinizmg his countenance, which was as expressionless as 
the cold marble, exclaimed in a voice of passion, " None of the pure blood of Pontiac shall mingle 
with the base blood of the pale face, unless it be in the struggle for life and death. I have said it ! 
Curse the white race ! Were I the father of a thousand daughters, whose eyes were as dark as the 
night, and whose hair were as beautiful as the raven's plumage, I would lay them all upon the dust 
and mingle their blood with the dirt ere it should mingle with that cursed race ! I will stand in 
their path, and stop their journey, or, upon the bones of my forefathers, perish," and the chief shook 
his spear with vehemence towards the dwarf. 

" These were words of truth," assented the small man, who still lay close to the rock, 

" Pishairo speak," said the sachem in a peremptory tone, which was not to be disobeyed. 

"The daughter of the Ottawa sachem gazed into the eyes of the pale face with those of the dove, 
and her voice was as soft as the nightingale when he sings to his love, as she whispered in a low 
voice, which reached my ear,' Thy canoe did not darken the waters last setting sun ; no ripple came 
to the shore from thy paddle; has the daughter of the Ottawa sachem grown cold in thine eye 1' 
Then spoke the pale faced chief, and his voice was like unto the silvery tones of the dark-eyed maiden, 
' The pale face loves the Ottawa maiden, but not for her lands — 'tis the maiden he wants, and he 
•would take her from this dreary forest to the bright land of his people— would the red maiden fol- 
low her pale lover 1' and he placed around her neck a chain made from the bright metal, as he drank 
from her glowing eyes the confession that she would be his own. In a mellow voice he bade her 
meet him at the next setting sun, and then his canoe went its noiseless way and soon disappeared ; 
these are not forked words." 

The eyes of the chief flashed fire, he gritted his teeth, and clenched his spear with the power of 
a vice, but, with that tact peculiar to him, covered the fury which raged within him under features 
which indicated nothing more to an observer than their usual stern and determined expression. He 
strode off, and the features of the dwarf again assumed their usual cunning and sinister expression. 
The haughty Ottawa sachem had beheld with a jealous eye the daily encroachments of the white 
race upon the lands owned by his tribe. His foresight told him that the power which a while pre- 
viously was unlimited among the tribes, was daily becoming weaker — and he already viewed, in an- 
ticipation, the whites as masters of the land of his ancestors, unless he adopted vigorous measures to 
drive them from it ere they increased to such numbers as would render futile all his attempts to ex- 
pel them. Already had his name ceased to create that electric effect which it was wont ere the 
whites came to the country, and he determined, with one sanguinary blow, to regain that mighty 
influence which he had lost. He was determined that his voice should again be heard with rever- 
ence at the council fire, and that, v\hen in his absence, his belt should summon a host of warriors 
to his standard, as it formerly did in the days of his glory. It is seldom we see one possessing power 
once, when levelled to the common standard of a private individual, who is willing to remain so ; 
but with the never-tiring and never-quietted passion ci'iilidon continually spurring him on, he is 
never satisfied, never at ease, but unceasingly engaged in plotting and counterplotting for the prize 
which can never be reached, till at last he expires, a victim to the passion which bums alike in the 
breast of the savage and the king. 

Pontiac still possessed unlimited sway over his own nation — yet the influence of the whites was 
also felt among his own tribe ; they did not obey his wishes with the same alacrity as previous to 
the appearance of the whites on their soil. The dwarf, who belonged to the Peoria nation, whom 
the warlike Ottawas had conquered and reduced to slavery, was a soi-disant chief: but the fate of 
war had not only reduced him to a private individual, but also to a slave, in which capacity he 
served under the Ottawa sachem ; which, after all, was more compatible with his talent than his for- 
mer station, which was an hereditary gift. Love and jealousy are passions which rage in a savage 
with more energy than in a refined bieast, and these were at this time the two predominant passions 
of Pishairo. He had seen Pontiac's beautiful daughter, and to see was to love; he had gazed upon 
her till he was intoxicated with her charms ; long and ardently had he watched her expanding wo- 
manhood, and, like the rose bud, so beautiful at first, now that she had expanded to maturity, ap- 
peared more lovely still. This amiable lover had beheld the meeting of the preceding evening, and 
inflamed wiih jealousy, he sought the chief, whose irritable disposition he knew could be easily 
fanned into a flame, particularly when the subject was the white aggressors. His object for com- 
municating this intelligence was the reverse of what the chief supposed it, who imagined he had 
Mad the countenance of the dwarf. 



As the trees were gilded with the last rays of the declining sun, a canoe silently glided towards 
the bank upon which stood the wigwam of the Ottawa chief. The person who sat in it, and noise- 
lessly plied the paddle, appeared to be aware of his proximity to the hunting ground of the Ottawas, 
by the many anxious looks which he directed to every tangled coppice which he passed. After re- 
viewing well the woods from the middle of the stream, he turned the prow towards the shore, and 
with one or two dips of his paddle, the canoe bounded to the land ; he sprang out, and drawing it 
farther upon the bank, stealthily walked up the hill, observing to examine the priming of his pis- 
tols, which he carried in his belt, previous to commencing the ascent. He gained the top, and 
■whistling softly, beheld the Ottawa maiden advancing from the direction of her father's wigwam. 
At this moment an Indian stepped from behind a tree near the white man. 

" Ah, Pishairo, thou art here agreeably to thy promise," exclaimed the white man, as he grasped 
the Indian's hand, " and thou hast talked with the sachem's daughter — how can I reward thee 1" 

" Reward !" exclaimed the dwarf, as his features assumed the sardonic expression peculiar to 
them when he was over excited. " Thinkest thou a Peoria sachem asks reward 1 he takes it." 

" This language is enigmatical ; explain thyself, warrior," said the white man, whose face slightly 
reddened. " How couldst thou take thy reward unless I chose to give it ?" 

The dwarf burst out into a hysterical laugh. " Does the eagle ask the hawk for his prey "? No ! 
he pounces upon him and takes him" — and the dwarf walked off laughing immoderately. 

The white man gazed after him, but the Indian maiden was in his arms ere he could give vent 
to an expression of anger. He impiinted a kiss on her forehead, and his eyes immediately lost their 
expression of angei with which he gazed at the dwarf. 

" Is the Ottawa maiden ready to go to the land of the white man's people 1" 
The girl hung her head, and then looking him in the face with eyes beaming love, she answered, 
" The Ottawa maiden is ready to leave her people, and follow her white warrior to his bright land." 

" Then we will hasten ere '' and turning around, the white man beheld himself surrounded 

with Indians, who stood as many as the trees. He seized the maiden with the left hand, and with his 
light drew a pistol, which he discharged at the nearest Indian ; they rushed on him, but with his 
knife, which he brandished in the air with herculean strength, he kept the wairiors at bay, and 
slowly retreated towards the boat ; thiice did they rush up, and thrice did he repel them ; but finally 
he was overpowered by the savages, thrown upon the ground, and bound. The maiden was led to 
her lodge, and the while man borne to the densest part of the woods, where were erected the tents 
of the warriors. He was taken to a spacious tent, in which sat Pontiac and all of his oldest chiefs. 
A low guttmal interjection from each man as he passed, indicated their knowledge of his capture ; 
and then all were as silent and motionless as statues. The sachem motioned with his hand, and 
the white man was untied, and stood amongst them. The chief arose to address him, and from a 
spark of joy which appeared to twinkle in his eyes, it was evident he was striving to master feelings 
of exultation, which were so intense as almost to overcome him. The white man folded his 
arms, and looked steadfastly in the eyes of Pontiac as he spoke ; and from the fearless man- 
ner in which he bore himself, it was evident that he could be no uncommon person. The 'sa- 
chem spoke slowly and distinctly, and his words embodied that sarcasm which strikes to the soul of 
the addressed. 

" White man, listen ! The red man and the white man were friends ; they sat at the same coun- 
cil fire, and they slept upon the same blanket ; they walked the same path, and they smoked to- 
gether the same pipe ; they ate of the same venison, and there was peace ! White man, listen ! Ye 
grew in strength, (for then ye were weak) till, like the tall oak, ye fain would spread youi branches 
over the other trees, to guard them from the stoim ; ye are now grown high, but beware ! — none 
but the tallest trees are stricken by the fire of the clouds. (Every warrior grunted a commendation.) 
Ye grew in strength till the land which you hunted upon grew small in your eyes, and then ye 
would have ours. Ye taught our young warriors to drink the fire water, which drove them mad, and 
they were no longer warriors. Is this all ■? No ! Not content with oui lands, ye would steal upon 
our hunting grounds to carry off our daughter; what does the paleface merit?" The sachem's 
eyes twinkled like two stars as he gazed around upon the rows of warriors. 

" Curse the wild cat ! he would prey upon his red brothers," said a clear eyed old warrior, whose 
scalp lock was blanched with years. 

" And merits burning at the stake," said another, whose loclis were no less white. 
"And his bones cast to the dogs — curse him!" exclaimed a third. 

" Curse him !'' reiterated the rest in a low tone, as they involuntarily tightened their grasps 
around their tomahawk handles — " can the white chief find his tongue 1" 

The prisoner already knew of the mighty scheme against the whites which the sachem wag pro- 
jecting by his dutiful slave Pishairo, and he felt that his only chance for life would be to obtain, if 
possible, a protraction of his execution. He spoke firmly and frankly, and admitted what they aU 
leady suspected. There was no cringing beneath the stern and steady gaze of Pontiac, but he threw 

46 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

it back by one equally stern and defying ; he spoke with powerful energy, for he was pleading for 
life; he described in glowing colors the impression the first sight of his daughter had upon him, and 
that he was resolved to wed her in order to cement the bonds of friendship firmer between the white 
and red men, 

A demoniacal smile spread over the features of the sachem when the white man had finished speak- 
ing ; he drew himself up to his full height, and fiercely demanded the war club — should be passed 
around, which was soon done, and it was decided that the prisoner should be burned at the stake the 
following morning. He was taken to a wigwam and firmly bound, and four lynx-eyed warriors 
were stationed over him, who had mingled their blood, and swore to take the life of any one of 
their number who should be so unfortunate as to fall asleep. 

The prisoner was the young commander of Fort Duquesne, who had a short time previous left 
his native country, buoyant with hope, but in an unlucky moment beheld the pretty Indian maid- 
en, whose native charms captivated him. None of the Indians were aware of the rank of their pri- 
soner save Pontiac, and a very few of the veteran chiefs and warriors, who were all anxious for his 
death, more that the news might intimidate the soldiers of the fort, than for the heinousness of the 
crime of striving to steal a girl. 

About midnight, a messenger stood before the lodge of Pishairo, who was tossing about on his 
blanket, a prey to the burning thoughts which tortured his brain. The Indian tore away the rude 
screen from before the place of entrance, and bade the dwarf arise and proceed to the council house, 
whither he repaired instantly. Pontiac sat at the farther end of the house, and at each side of him 
four chiefs, whose hair were snowy with age, and like all grave counsellors, when on duty, they sat 
stem and motionless, with the exception of their lips, which slightly moved as the smoke from them 
curled in thick wreaths over their heads. 

"Pishairo!" The dwarf stood motionless, in a listening attitude. 

" Pishairo has his ears sharpened," said he, in a firm tone. 

" Listen," said the sachem ; " travel with the wings of the dove to fort Duquesne, and bear its 
commanding chief this belt ; look upon it ! 'tis a broad one ! the wampum is red. It speaks of 
war ! Tell him the red men would have him leave his fort, and march his men from our soil ere to- 
morrow's sun climbs the sky, or their great chief, who is our prisoner, shall be burned at the stake. 
Listen ! tell him the red warriors await his answer, in numbers as many as the leaves upon the 
trees — hasten." 

The aged chiefs granted an assent ; the dvrarf received the belt and departed. Ere he had pro- 
ceeded half a mile, a messenger overtook him, with orders from the sapient council to return. The 
dwaif measured the distance to the council house, and then turned back, and his eyes assumed a 
diabolical expression, and his eyes rolled with rage. The chiefs still occupied their seats, and ap- 
peared to take no farther notice of his return than by puffing larger volumes of smoke from their 
lips. Pontiac fixed his eyes upon the dwarf's countenance, and the gaze appeared to read the in- 
most thoughts which worked so wildly and energetically in his breast ; his own countenance was 
as unmoved and expressionless as if he slept. 

" Will the panther degrade himself and be a fox 1" at length the sachem thundered out. 

The dwarf laid his hand on his heart, and then throwing out his arms, exclaimed, " If the Ottawa 
sachem thinks the panther could be a fox, let him treat him as one." 

" Fidehty lurks not in the fox, yet it is with the Peoria warrior, said an old counsellor. 

" Methinks Pishairo is no snake," grumbled another. 

A writhing smile played upon the sachem's face, as he respectfully nodded to the old men who 
spoke, and bade the dwarf depart, nor tarry on his way. 


By day-break next morning, the warriors of the surrounding tribes poured in from all directions, 
till the woods were filled with them. The large council house was occupied by the old men, while 
the young warriors went through their war dance, and excited each other's passions with songs of 
the white aggressors, and tales of their own chivalrous feats. At the council, the Ottawa sachem 
exerted his talents with the most skilful success. With a profound knowledge of the character of 
the members of the several tribes who sat before him, he spoke words which, to them, were as fire ; 
nothing was left unsaid to arouse their passions against the whites. With oratorical powers, which 
could not be commanded by a white man, and an energy of gesture, which was natural, he painted 
in vivid colors to their imaginations, the usurpations of the white race since their arrival on the soil; 
how they had taken possession of their hunting grounds, and destroyed their game, and finally tried 
to steal away their children to make them slaves. He appealed to their prejudices and to their pas- 
sions ; and to render them more sanguine of success, promised them the assistance of the Great 
Spirit, who, he said, had visited him in a dream, and declared he would assist their cause, which was 
the holy one of freedom. The old waniors grasped their weapons, and, with suppressed interjections 


of rage, shook them in the air. During this excitement a small man entered, and took his way 
through the rows of warriors, till he stood before the orator. It was Pishairo ; he bore on the point 
of a long pole the war belt which he had received of Pontiac the previous evening; it was stripped 
of all its wampum, and was bare ! The sachem snatched it from the pole, and held it before the ex- 
cited members of the council, while his countenance was distorted with passion. The effect was in- 
stantaneous; the whole council arose with one burst of rage, and rushed out of the door, followed 
by Pontiac, who tore the belt to a thousand pieces, as he strode after them. The young warriors 
deserted the painted pole around which they danced, and with a wild yell crowded forward at the 
heels of the host which rushed forward with the irresistible impetus of the mountain torrent. They 
arrived at the wigvi^am where the prisoner lay, which they tore to pieces, and unbinding him, they 
bore him to the stake amid the deafening yells of the young warriors, while hundreds crowded in 
with arms full of dry faggots. The white man tried to speak, but his voice wSs drowned amid the 
loud curses of his enemies, whose fists and spear handles w-ere as busy as their tongues. His clothes 
were instantly torn from him in rags, and his body was painted black ; a buffalo thong was tied 
around his neck, and fastened to the stake, leaving a line long enough for him to move freely. The 
faggots were piled around at the distance of six feet, and a warrior stood with a torch to light them, 
when a shrill cry was heard, and the daughter of Pontiac sprang over the dry wood, and threw her- 
self upon the breast of her lover, which she clung to as a drowning man to a straw. The warriors 
looked upon this sight, which was so suddenly and unexpectedly presented them, with astonish- 
ment ; but there was no gaze of pity mingled with those looks — no compassion for her distress ; 
they curled their lips with rage, which soon broke out in yells of impatience. Pontiac drew back a 
moment with surprise, and then, with the fury of a demon, he grasped his tomahawk, and rushed 
upon his daughter to dash out her brains, when his arm was caught by Pishairo, the violent and se- 
cret lover of the maiden. With a thundering exclamation of contempt, the sachem seized the dwarf, 
as if he had been the smallest infant, and hurled him far over the heads of the warriors. The In- 
dian sprang upon his feet, and stung with rage, rushed at Pontiac, whom he reached in time to sus- 
pend a second blow, when a famous chief of another tribe interfered, and saved the life of the 
maiden. She was torn from the prisoner, and borne back to her wigwam ; the faggots were fired, 
and the dreadful work commenced. At this moment, a discharge of rifles burst upon the astonished 
warriors, and many of them were laid low with the dead ; but the rest, v.ho were excited to phren- 
zy, fought like lions. Before the English could load their guns, the Indians, led by Pontiac, were 
among them with the dreadful tomaliawk, which they wielded with their usual force and success. 
The battle was now hand to hand, and each man was engaged in a struggle which was for life or 
death. During this time, the Indian maiden rushed through the burning faggots and cut the cord 
which bound her lover, who joined his people, nov/ losing ground beneath the desperation of the In- 
dians. Long and deadly was the contest, but finally the' whites were forced to give way before the 
fury of the savages. They retreated with tolerable order, under the example of their naked and 
blackened commander, who had lost none of his bi avery with his clothes. They regained their boats, 
and after striving once more to gain an advantage, without success, paddled ofl', followed by the 
curses of the warriors, whose rage was none appeased b}' being deprived of the consoling sight of a 
prisoner burnt at the stake. Pontiac mounted a log, and in a few moments succeeded in fanning 
their already excited passions to a furious flame, and then the whole savage host marched for Fort 
Duquesne, as the exciting war song, from a thousand voices, swelled upon the air. 


Among the warriors was a Chippewa chief, named Minavana, gifted with a powerful eloquence, 
which, with an indomitable disposition, rendered him a formidable rival of the Ottawa sachem. The 
Chippewas were at that time the strongest, with the single exception of the Oltawas, of the tribes 
inhabiting that vast wilderness stretching between the lakes and the Ohio river. This chief beheld, 
with a jealous eye, the ascending influence of the Ottawa sachem, whose power he iinagined was on 
the ebb, and with all the secret intrigue which he possessed, caballed against Pontiac. But these 
intrigues did not escape the wily sachem's notice, who, by means of some of the Chippewa's own 
warriors, received daily information of the progress of his plots. 

The sun was high in the heavens, when the host of warriors reached a ravine, formed by a moun- 
tain torrent, which, for ages, had rolled down the path. Here they encamped for the night, and af- 
ter placing sentinels around the neighborhood of the camps, the Ottawa sachein took his spear, and 
strode up the mountain side. He went alone — there was no human being to whom he could com- 
municate his secret projects, for there was no red man whose mind appeared to him gigantic enough 
to share his ambitious schemes. He strode up the mountain, looking upon either side, as he held 
his spear ready to strike into any of the wild animals, which, at that time, inhabited the mountain- 
ous countries in great numbers. The sun was now sinking behind a bed of clouds at the far west_ 
the birds were singing their evening songs ; the wind was lulled to sleep, and even the stern sa' 

48 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

chem's breast was influenced by the repose around him ; his fierce spirit was calmed, and as he sat 
on a high rock, overlooking the whole country, he reasoned dispassionately on the probable chance 
of his succeeding in his bold design of driving the whites from his country. " Then again," said he, 
" will I be the sole king of this broad and blooming hunting ground : there will be no white men to 
teach our warriors cowardice, nor to create dissatisfaction among our young men. All will be as it 
were in the olden times ere the pale faces visited our shores ; and when the sachem's runners were 
not treated with contempt." 'J'he sachem's voice sank lower, but he was so absorbed in his ambi- 
tious thoughts, as not to observe two individuals who stood upon a rock just above him. They 
gazed eagerly upon him, and then spoke earnebtly, but in a tone sufficiently low as not to reach the 
ear of the dreaded chief. The smaller warrior, who was the dwarf Pishairo, stealthily disappeared 
behind the rock ; the other, who was the Chippewa sachem Minavana, made a noise which attracted 
the attention of Pontiac, and then appeared to be looking in another direction, apparently uncon- 
scious of his proximity to the Ottawa. 

" The Chippewa sachem is a panther in the fight," said Pontiac, in a tone of commendation. 

The Chippewa turned around, and, apparently surprised, saluted the sachem Vv'ith dignity and 
marked respect. 

" Would the sapient Pontiac practice his spesr upoii the heart of the bloody panther ere he plants 
it in the white man's 1" said the Chippewa, with a deferential inclination of the head, as he strode 
to the rock upon which sat the Ottawa. " I have sought thee eagerly ; the pale face warriors are 
upon our grounds, and our young warriors pant for battle — they want Pontiac." 

The Ottawa sprang to his feet, and followed Minavana. They wound their way around huge 
rocks — now upon the edge of a frowning precipice, where one false step would hurl them to atoms, 
and then at the bottom, where rocks rose above them, like the towers of some tremendous castle ; 
but they trod their way with a precision which could not be learned but by one who had spent years 
among the mountains. They finally reached a deep ravine, half way to the encampment of the In- 
dian army. The rocks rose high on each side, leaving a space between them of but a few feet. The 
Ottawa walked some distance before, wholly occupied in anticipating the battle, in which he hoped 
to be a formidable participator; while walking, he heard a voice, and turning around, the Chippewa 
chief was no where to be seen ; but in the gloom of the evening, he beheld a party of his warriors, 
armed alone with knives; they slowly advanced, dispersing, apparently with a view of taking him 
alive. The Ottawa hurled his spear in the breast of one, and, with his war cry, attacked them witli 
a fury which was irresistible ; he broke through them, and leaving four of their number dead, bound- 
ed down the mountain side; a shrill yell before him, by its peculiar tone, informed him a Chippewa 
was near ; he drew his knife, aud bounded forward — the sachem Minavana stood before him, 

" Curse thy false heart, Chippewa, thou art a squaw !" and with one jump, they stood facing each 
other, their eyes gleaming hate, and their lips curled with the scorn with which they pretended to 
view each other. 

" Thou art but a little girl, Ottawa, when the Chippewa sachem stands before thee," and with 
these approbious epithets, they fought with fury. Their physical powers were well matched, but 
the dread in which the Chippewa held Pontiac, might have weakened his energies, and he appeared 
to quail beneath the glare of the Ottawa's eye ; but he fought with the desperation which his situ- 
ation required. They were now locked in each other's firm embrace, and, after writhing awhile, 
they fell from the rock upon which they fought, upon a ledge a few feet below. They sprung upon 
their feet, and stood a moment to regain energy for their last struggle. They viewed each other 
with gestures of scorn. 

" The Ottawa squaw can't fight — his arms are too weak," panted the Chippewa in a contemp- 
tuous tone, while he knew he had been worsted in the scuffle. 

" The Chippewa is a fox, he is unworthy to live among warriors," oiied the other, and with 
drawn knives they again rushed' at each other ; and the Chippewa, who was the most excited by the 
other's taunting language, threw himself off his guard, and received the Ottawa's knife, which pene- 
trated to his heart. Pontiac tore from his head the scalp, and went his way to the camp. The war 
song rang upon his ear, and the young warriors were dancing around the painted war pole, while 
the old men had already assembled in the council house, and with impatience awaited the presence 
of their sachems. Pontiac entered with the reeking scalp of Minavana in his hand ; he took his sta- 
tion at the head of the council house, and held up before them the scalp, from which yet dropped 
the warm blood. The house was now full to overflowing ; the young warriors had ceased their 
dance, and repaired to the council en masse to hear of the next day's operation ; every wigwam was 
deserted, and all the warriors choked up that spacious yet temporary house, till there was not room 
for one more spectator. With his usual strength of voice, the Ottawa sachem recounted to the listen- 
ing multitude the manner in which he had procured the scalp he held before them. In the most 
glowing colors he depicted to them the struggle he had to save his life, which he declared was va- 
lueless to himself, but of infinite value to his nation at this critical moment. He shook the scalp in 
the air, and called upon his people to revenge the attempt upon his life, which he assured them was 
only the beginning of a long concocted plot to undermine the power of his nation, and build up ano- 
ther on its ruins. His eloquence ran like lightning tlirough the ranks of warriors, and their various 



passions were shown conspicuously upon their features. The young shook their tomahawks in the 
air, and with demoniacal gestures, desired to be led against their enemies. 

At this moment, when all was excitement, the dwarf Pishairo stepped before Pontiac,_and after 
eyeing him for a moment, came closer to him, as if to impart an important secret. The sachem 
stooped down in a listening posture; the dwarf suddenly drew a knife and stuck it to the handle in 
his breast — the blade pierced the heart of Pontiac ! he sank upon the earth and died ; the mighty 
Pontiac, whose name carried terror even among the whites, expired at the feet of his base slave, the 
dwarf Pishairo. A loud burst of rage rang from the lips of every warrior present, who rushed up, 
and seizing the murderer, bore him from the council house ; they no longer thought of their chief, their 
whole thoughts were completely absorbed with revenge. They carried the traitor into an open space, 
and by piece-meal, they cut his flesh from his body. The wretch was one hour expiring. Their re- 
venge satiated, they returned to their fallen sachem, who lay upon the ground dead and stiff". They 
all silently gathered around, wrapped in profound and solemn thought, for now their rage had passed 
away. Long did they stand and silently gaze upon the marble features of him, whose frown could 
have awed so many. At length a chief arose, his hair was as white as the driven snow, and his once 
powerful frame was bent with years ; his voice trembled with age and emotion as he spoke, and he 
was listened to with reverential attention. He recanted the bold exploits of the fallen lion who was 
at their feet, and he dwelt long upon his virtues, which were as many and as bright as the dew-drops 
upon the leaves. The impression could not be resisted even by the stoical warriors ; the large tear- 
drops trickled down their cheeks despite their efforts to conceal them, as they looked upon all that 
remained of Pontiac, the last of the Ottawa sachems. And well might they weep ! for the gigantic 
mind, which kept their tribe to its pinnacle of power, had departed forever ! 


The daughter of Pontiac wandered about like a restless spirit, till at length she suddenly disap- 
peared from among them ; and for many moons did the red man search after her, but she was not 
to be found, and they finally concluded she had followed her father to the " great hunting grounds 
far away to the rising sun." At length she was discovered — she was the wife of the young com- 
mander of Fort Duquesne, and many of her descendants are living to this day. J. M. S^ 

Dayton, March 13, 1839. 


B T E. A. P O E. 

Thou wast that all to me, love, 
For which my soul did pine — 

A green isle in the sea, love, 
A fountain and a shrine 

All wreath'd around about with flowers- 
And the flowers, they all were mine. 

But the dream, it could not last ; 

And the star of Hope did rise 
But to be overcast. 

A voice from out the Future cries 
" Onward !" — while o'er the Past, 

(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies, 
Mute, motionless, aghast ! 

I For alas ! alas ! with me. 

Ambition, all, is oer — 
" No more, no more, no more" 
(Such language holds the solemn sea 

To the sands upon the shore) 
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree 

Or the stricken eagle soar. 

And all my hours are trances 
And all my nightly dreams 

Are where thy dark eye glances. 
And where thy footstep gleams, 

In what ethereal dances, 
By what eternal streams. 


Come, let us recline awhile beneath the wide-spreading branches of this ancient pine, and steal 
from the busy hours a few moments for wholesome meditation. Around us are reposing, in the 
calm tranquillity of dreamless sleep, the friends of our childhood — the beloved of our liper years. A 
holy melancholy, a subdued sorrow, rests with brooding wings upon this solemn bourne. These 
pale violets mark the hallowed spot where slumbers the young mother's darling — the proud father's 
hope. Tears, pure as parental love, have bedewed their opening buds — tears prompted by aflection 
so deep and true that the pure offering has found acceptance in the sight of Him, and a sweet and 
tranquil sorrow steals o'er the hearts of the youthful mourners, purifying and preparing them for 
the solemn change that awaits all mortality. Yon marble column glancing in the sunlight, a sculp- 
tured wreath encircling its cleft brow, tells us of the deep-springing affection of years by thy hand 
severed, oh ! death — of kind tones hushed — of the young household desolate — of the prattling cry 
of laughing infants for their dear mother's voice and smile stilled. The wife, the mother, rests be- 
neath. Mark that venerable monument, by wind-reft pines and time-worn oaks o'ershadowed ! Let 
us, with reverential step, approach and gaze upon its solemn face ! No more is heard the voice of 
admonition, or of calm advice. No more the joyous grand-children climb about grand-pa's knees, 
and shout with merry hearts at his jokes, or weep with breasts o'ercharged with sympathetic grief, 
while breathless listening to the old man's legendary tales. No more beside the cheerful hearth is 
seen that venerable form — that noble brow — those silvered locks. The old man here from his labor 
rests, and his fond family know him no more. Turn we to this simple slab of modest gray ; no 
name — no date proclaims who rests beneath. These deep-hewn lines will tell, perhaps, the story 
of his life. 


Offspring of dust, I dream'd 

A worm might soar ; 
By death to dust rcturn'd, 

I dream no more. 

Stranger, pass on ! 

Nor farther seek to learn ; 
I am, what thou 

Ere long shalt be — a worm. 

Sleep on, afflicted spirit, sleep ! Thy soul was seared by grief, and the pride of thy mortality, 
hath steeled thy heart against its holy influence. Truly, thou hast died as the worm dieth ; but thy 
soul — thy vivifying spirit — hath it gone out wilh thee ? Has the inborn power — the clear compre- 
hending intelligence — the calm, all-grasping reason — the deep, devoted affection — the all-sacrificing 
love — have these all ceased v/ith the throbbing of thy heart 1 Has the inner life — the ethereal es- 
sence — partaken of the decay and annihilation of thy material frame 1 The soft breath of the 
flower-scented morning whispers " No!" The soothing calm of summer's twilight eve murmurs 
" No !" The sheeted lightning and the crashing tempest thunder " No !" The insect humming 
through its happy hour — the shy bird sheltered in some quiet nook — pour forth their voice of love 
and inward sense of happiness. Think you, there mingles no tiibute of the heart with their har- 
monious hymnings '! And thou ! man ! whose mortality rests at my feet — thou, alone, had'st no 
offering for the great Jehovah. He who was, and is, and is to come. Well hast thou called thyself 
worm, if thou did'st feel not the immortal spirit within thee, like the imprisoned bird, beat at the 
material bars that caged it in, and bound it down, and barred it from the sun. 

Oh ! the dim memories, and twilight remembrances ! How like spirits of the air do they flit 
across our souls, wakening to life strange and mysterious recollections of things that have been — 
but when, or where 1 And the echo of the soul only answers, " When, or where V Who has 



not thrilled with those entrancing dreams — born of solitude and meditation — as if the soul struggled 
to o'ermaster its earthly doom, and, like a repentant wanderer, return to its old familiar haunts ! 
Say, skeptic, say ! 

Whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire, 
This longing after immortality 1 

It is the echo of a departed existence ; it is the far-off voice of the Past hailing the hurrying Pre- 
sent. Its tones are only heard in the calm of the hushed evening, or in the solemn stillness of the 
midnight hours. Then, when the listening spirit may almost hear the stately music of the revolv- 
ing spheres, 'tis thus she speaks — " Oh, Present! why, with fleet step and agitated mien, speed'st 
thou onward to thy bourne ? That which I was, thou art — what I am, thou shalt become. The 
doom is on thee, and thou can'st not wander from the one path. Why, then, oh why, by the silent 
■way-side wilt thou not sit down and listen to my voice l Thou can'st not hear it in the city's busy 
haunts, or in pleasure's lighted halls. And I will tell thee, oh ! Present, that thou art but a shadow — 
the shadow of the future, as I was of thee. Thou can'st not attain the real or the permanent with 
all thy strugglings. They appertain unto the Future. Let this solemn truth arrest thy anxious 
steps ! Cease to seek that which thou can'st not find, and suffer thyself silently to be borne on the 
calm waters of hope to the bosom of thy destiny. With liberal hand and thankful heart, pluck the 
sweet-scented flowers around thee springing, and let their fragrance sooth thee to rest. A happy 
and a contented spirit is the noblest and the fittest offering thou can'st place upon the altar of thy 
worship. Therefore, be wise, be contented, and thou shalt be happy." C, R. T. 



Thy soul shall find itself alone 

'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tomb-stone- 

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry 

Into thine hour of secrecy: 

Be silent in that solitude, 

Which is not loneliness — for then 
The spirits of the dead who stood 

In life before thee are again 
In death around thee — and their will 
Shall overshadow thee : be still. 

The night — tho' clear — shall frown — 
And the stars shall look not down, 
From their high thrones in the heaven, 
With light like Hope to mortals given— 

But their red orbs, without beam, 
To thy weariness shall seem 
As a burning and a fever 
Which would cling to thee for ever. 

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish- 
I Now are visions ne'er to vanish — 
I From thy spirit shall they pass 
I No more — like dew-drop from the grass. 

The breeze — the breath of God — is still — 
And the mist upon the hill 
Shadowy — shadowy — yet unbroken, 
Is a symbol and a token — 
How it hangs upon the trees, 
A mystery of mysteries ! — 

A C H A P T E R 
o s 






The use of the bow is of remote antiquity — its obvious simplicity of construction, as well as the 
purposes to which it is adapted, having rendered its employment almost universal from the very ear- 
liest periods of which we have any distinct account. But we do not wish to trouble our readers with 
a disquisition upon its ancient history. It was originally formed, no doubt, of the rough bough of a 
tree, but improvements would be almost immediately discovered. The simple branch would speedily 
be rendered more convenient by a little cutting, so as to make the curve regular on both sides of the 
centre. Homer tells us how the bow of Pandarus was fashioned — 

He heard, and madly at the motion pleased, 
His polished bow with hasty rashness seized. 
'Twas formed of horn, and smooth'd with artful toil; 
A mountain goat resigned the shining spoil. 
Who, pierced long since, beneath his arrows bled ; 
The stately quarry on the cliff lay dead. 
And sixteen palms his brows' large honors spread ; 
The workmen joined and shaped the bended horns, 
And beaten gold each taper point adorns. 

Herodotus says that the bows of the Ethiopians were four cubits, or not less than six feet long. 
The Grecian bow is said to have been of the figure of their own letter sigma. The Scythian bow 
was somewhat of the same form. The bows used by the Daci were made in a very beautiful curve. 
It has been supposed that the Romans introduced the bow into Britain, or at least very much im- 
proved those which they found in use among the natives, and in course of time it became the national 
weapon of the class of inhabitants called yeomen. 

But the Anglo-Saxons and the Danes were certainly well acquainted with the use of the bow; a 
knowledge they derived at an early period from their progenitors. The Scandinavian Scalds, speak- 
ing in praise of the heroes of their countiy, frequently add to the rest of their acquirements a supe- 
riority of skill in handling the bow. It does not, however, appear that this skill was extended be- 
yond the purpose of procuring food, or for pastime, either by the Saxons or by the Danes, in times 
anterior to the conquest. 

Representations of the bow occur frequently in the Saxon MSS. The cut annexed, taken from 
a manuscript of the tenth century found in the Cotton Library, gives the figure of a Saxon bow and 
arrow. The bow is curiously ornamented, having the head and tail of a serpent carved at the ends ; 
and was probably such an one as was used by the nobility. In all these old Saxon bows we may 
observe one thing remarkable, that is, the string not being made fast to the eitremities, but permitted 



to play at some distance from them. How far this might be more or less advantageous than the pre- 
sent method, we cannot presume to determine. 


It is well known that the Normans used the bow as a military weapon; and, under their govern- 
ment, the practice of archery was not only much improved, but generally diffused throughout the 

In the ages of chivalry the usage of the bow was considered as an essential part of the education 
of a young man who wished to make a figure in life. The heroes of romance are therefore usually 
praised for their skill in archery ; and Chaucer, with propriety, says of sir Thopas, " He was a good 

In the seventeenth century archery was much commended as an exercise becoming a gentleman 
to practice, and greatly conducivp to health. The ladies also were foud of this amusement. It was 
usual, when they exercised the bow, for the beasts to be confined by very large enclosures, sur- 
rounded by the hunters, and driven in succession from the covers to the stands, where the fair sports- 
women were placed ; so that they might readily shoot at them, without the trouble and fatigue of 
rousing and pursuing them. It is said of Margaret, the daughter of Henry the Seventh, that when, 
she was on her way towards Scotland, a hunting party was made for her amusement in Alnwick 
Park, where she killed a buck with an arrow. It is not specified whether the long-bow or the cross- 
bow was used by the princess upon this occasion ; we are certain, that the ladies occasionally shot 
with both, for when queen Elizabeth visited lord Montecute at Cowdrey, in Sussex, on the Monday, 
"Her highness tooke horse, and rode into the park, at eight o'clock in the morning, where was a 
delicate bowre prepared, under the which were her highness musicians placed ; and a cross-bow, by 
a nympth, with a sweet song, was delivered into her hands, to shoote at the deere ; about some thirty 
in number were put into a paddock, of which number she killed three oi four, and the countess of 
Kildare one." 

The foregoing observations refer chiefly to the lo7ig-how, so called, to distinguish it from the 
arbalisi, or a-oss-bow, which was not only much shorter than the former, but fastened also upon a 
stock, and discharged by the means of a catch or trigger, which probably gave rise to the lock upon 
the modern musket. We cannot pretend to determine at what period the cross-bow was first brought 
into England, but we believe not long before the commencement of the thirteenth century ; at least, 
we never meet with any representation of such an engine prior to that period. On the continent, 
where probably it originated, its appearance might be somewhat earlier. Historians assure us, that 
Richard the First was wounded by an arrow from a bow of this kind, while he was reconnoitering 
the walls of the castle of Chalezun ; which wound was the occasion of his death. 

The courage, discipline, strength and skill, displayed by British bowmen, during a period of 
more than six centuries, are so much a matter of ordinary history that it is hardly necessary to enlarge 
upon them here. In all the expeditions of which they formed a part, they proved to their adversa- 
ries a terror and a scourge. Even the bare appearance of a body of English archers in the field, often 
led to a bloodless victory ; and, as experience had proVed that the best armor was no protection against 
their arrows, their bold and confident spiiit often led them into very unequal contests. 

Secured in their position by an ingenious mode of fortification, — the materials for which each 
archer carried on his person, — the English bowmen laughed to scorn the fiercest charges of the steel- 
clad chivalry of the middle ages. Of all the European nations, none suffered more severely, or more 
requently, from the effects of their archery than the French. Like the Italians, when invaded by the 
Huns, — another nation of formidable bowmen, — they composed a mass, expressly depreciating the 
calamities it inflicted upon them : — " Ab AngUcorum nos defendejacidls /" — " From the arrows of 
the English, defend us, O Lord !" 

The ancient legislators, ever on the watch to encourage and enforce the practice of this art, once 
the sole guardian of the national independence, passed many judicious laws to prevent its falling into 
disuse. By these, a fine of one mark was levied on every master of a family who permitted any of 
his male inmates to be without a bow and three shafts, for the space of a month.* The local autho- 

54 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

rities were required to superintend the erection of public butts, in the environs of every town and 
village. Many of their ancient positions are yet known, however different the uses to which the 
ground where they once stood, is at present applied. 

The nobility and spiritual persons were, by law, excepted ; but men of every other rank and calling 
assembled, at these public shooting-grounds, to ply the sturdy yew and gallant gray goose wing. 
Thither the lordly baron sent his feudal vassals ; thither came the squire, the independent franklyn, 
the wealthy yeoman, the lude peasant, and the unwashed artizan. All formed one promiscuous 
multitude, of which the numbers, in populous districts, were so considerable that, after the first season, 
the grass never grew around these public marks. 

The sabbaths and other holidays vi'ere appropriated, by the statute, for these exercises of archery. 
But our British progenitors, enthusiastically attached to their favorite weapon, rendered all penal 
enactments, for a series of ages, unnecessary. The intervals of labor were all devoted to the shoots 
ing-giound, and their bows and arrows accompanied them in every excursion. 

The extreme range of a flight shaft, when discharged from one of their ancient bows, is stated to 
have been four hundred yards, or nearly one quarter of a mile.-j- At about a fourth of this distance, 
the war arrow would penetrate any ordinary breast-plate, and slay man or hoise at little short of 
two-thirds of it. To maintain and promote this strong and vigorous shooting, the statute of the 
33d of Henry the Eighth forbade any man, above the age of foui-and- twenty, to use the lighter kind 
of arrows, unless the butts were upwards of two hundred and twenty yards apart. After the pro- 
mulgation of this law, the strong and dexterous archers frequently increased the distance, of their 
own accord, to two hundred and forty yards. The practice is alluded to by Shakspeare, who, beyond 
all question, was not only a bowman, but an accomplished one. A contempt for mediocrity is one 
of the characteristics of genius. The pursuits of his juvenile days — for we have all read of his moon- 
light excursions to Charlecot Deer-Park, — the law of the land, which permitted no youth of his age 
and rank to remain one month without a bow and shafts — are sufficient evidence ; and, if more were 
wanting, we have it under his own hand. 

Burke once playfully observed — and the pointed sally is characteristic of that great man — th^t 
fox-hunting formed nf ui mportant balance of the British constitution. His meaning is sufficiently 
obvious. The chase, oy bringing the aristocracy into familiar contact with the gentry and middle 
classes of society, broke down the bar of exclusiveness, and led to a mutual interchange of good 
offices, socially, and in many instances, poUtically advantageous to each. 

" And surely" — says a very agreeable writer, and one evidently well conversant with the sub- 
ject — " the praise of these excellent qualities belongs more especially to modern archery. No visi- 
tant of the splendid bow-meetings which each revolving summer recals into existence, throughout the 
sylvan glades of this romantic land, ever remained uninfluenced by the joyous hilarity, the delight- 
ful ease and freedom which light each countenaKce with smiles. There, where men of various ranks, 
and, grace d Dieu ! women too assemble, to bear away — 

The arrow with a golden head, 
A.nd shaft of silver white, — 

the plumed hat and forest gieen place all upon a temporary equality. Superior adroitness alone con- 
fers distinction. The possessor of- a ducal coronet, whose ill-aimed shaft flies wide of the mark, cheer- 
fully yields precedence to the untitled bowman who has placed Ids within its broad circlet of gold. 
Hail then to the free, frank, and joyous spirits which compose an assemblage of British bowmen ! 
No doubt but the circumstances under which the arclier pursues his amusement, have considerable 
influence in producing this happy condition of mind. The balmy breezes of summer, — the charms 
of picturesque scenery, — the romance with which glorious tradition has invested his pursuits, — and 
the emulation engendered by the knowledge that most of his competitors boast a skill little inferior 
to his own, — keep the spirits in a state of agreeable excitement. He cannot be unconscious that he 
is ' the observed of all observers ;' for every attitude — whether it be the preliminary action of string- 
ing the bow, or the final one by which an arrow is discharged against a distant mark, — displays un- 
rivalled manliness and grace. His bow, arrows, belt, bracer and shooting-glove are, for the most part, 
exact counterparts of those used by England's yeomanry, five centuries ago. Even the attire in 
which he shoots bears a general resemblance to the costume of the same warlike period. These 
things never fail to tinge imaginations at all excitable with a strong feeling of enthusiasm; and 
which the regulations of an archery fete are certainly not calculated to weaken. The contest takes 
place in the presence, and amidst the plaudits, of assembled hundreds. 

Store of ladies, wl.oje bright eyes 
Eain influence and adjudge the prize, 

are there ; and from the hands of female beauty he receives the reward of his dearly-earned triumph. 

* Hints for a Justice of the Peace. 

f Neade's Double-armed Man. 4to., 1 627. 



It is to the good sense and discernment of the ' Woodmen of the Forest of Aiden' that we owe, 
in modern times, the introduction of the bow, as a suitable and healthful recreation for their fair 
countrywomen ,■ — and it was fortunate that their individual position in society entitled them to dic- 
tate laws to fashion, under whose powerful auspices the practice of archery by females was intro- 
duced to the world. 

ht Attended by a fair portion of the excitement peculiar to the chase, but without its perils and its 
cruelty requiring no excessive corporeal exertion — offering a combination of the rhost graceful po- 
sitions appropriate to every other exercise, — and invariably associated with refined and polished so- 
ciety, archery, from that time, made rapid advances in public estimation. The British fair quickly 

emancipated themselves from the ancient tyranny of back-bones, embroidery frames, spinnets, harp- 
sichords, and all the other foolery of their grandmothers. 

In the goode greene woode, 
Among the lilie flower, 

they sought that health and vivacity which pure air and active exertion can alone confer. 
?■ The ladies associated with the woodmen were, originally, restricted to their own, immediate family 
connexions. Soon, however, the admissions became less exclusive. The piizes awarded by this so*. 
ciety have always been distinguished for their splendor and variety. But the Aylesfords, the Mor- 
daunts, the Adamses, the Molands, and the Bagots, of the last — with the Boultbees, the Parkers, 
the Gresleys, and the Wises, of the present, age — the fair victors who have won, or still ' win and 
wear them' — have displayed a skill in all respects worthy of their magnitude. 

Mrs. Crespigny's public breakfasts were another interesting feature in the annals of female archery. 
Many a deUghtful morning's lounge did these same breakfasts afford to such of the ' fashionable 
world' as had the good fortune to obtain cards of invitation. They were the most literal and prac- 
tical illustrations of the utile dulci that I ever knew. The company shot ' games,' as they are caIIc«J 
in the technicalities of archery. Eleven was the decisive number ; and the arrows count according 
to their positions in the target. A shot in the gold circle reckons as nine, — the red, seven, — the 
inner white, five, — the black, three, — the outer white, one. Fines of half-a-crown were paid by the 
losers, the amount being appropriated to the support of a Sunday-school. The girls of the charity 
attended these archery meetings, attired in dresses of grass-green. 

One hundred yards was the space between the targets. When the gentlemen had shot, they 
walked, in procession with the ladies, thirty paces forward ; and the latter then discharged their ar- 
rows, at the unusual distance of seventy yards. Many will agree with me in thinking that these 
archety breakfasts might be judiciously revived, at the present day." 

(To be Cantinued.)> 

TOL. T. — NO. I. 



The History of the Navy of the United States of America. By J. Fenimore Cooper. Lea and 

Blanchard, Philadelphia. 

In appealing before the public with this History of our Navy, Mr. Cooper has had two serious 
difficuUies to surmount — one of prejudice, and one of exaggerated anticipation. It cannot be denied 
that, for many years past, he has been rapidly sinking in the estimation of his countrymen, and in- 
deed of all right minded persons. Even his firmest friends were becoming ashamed of the univer- 
sality of his cynicism ; and his enemies, ceasing in a measure from open hostility, have been well 
content to abide the apparently inevitable self-ruin which his own unconquerable ill temper was so 
speedily bringing about. A flashy succession of ill-conceived and miserably executed literary pro- 
ductions, each more silly than its predecessor, and wherein the only thing noticeable was the pee- 
vishness of the writer, the only thing amusing his self-conceit — had taught the public to suspect even 
a ladical taint in the intellect, an absolute and irreparable mental leprosy, rendering it a question 
whether he ever would or could again accoinplish any thing which should be worthy the attention 
of people not positively rabid. In this state of affairs, it was not ut all wonderful that the announce- 
ment of a Naval History of the United States, by the author of the attack upon Sir Walter Seott, 
was received with apathy and general distrust — with a feeling very different indeed from that which 
would have agitated the whole reading world at a similar announcement during the golden days of 
the celebrated novelist, and once exceedingly popular man. 

Among the few, on the other hand, who had better opportunities of penetrating the mystery, and 
fathoming the extent, of that obstinate disease of the spleen which had so long made the author a 
burden to himself, and an object of compassion to his friends — among those who knew the disorder 
not altogether incurable, and who had good reason to rely firmly upon the innate vigor and elastici- 
ty of the constitution — even among these we have noticed a want of proper consideration in regard 
to the subject matter of the anticipated work — a misconception of the extent and capacities of the 
theme — which has operated to the temporary disadvantage of the historian. 

Mr. Cooper's strength in sea narrative was well known, and justly appreciated ; and in a work 
on Naval Histoiy, much was expected of a character very similar to that which had afforded its 
charm to the " Pilot," and rivetted attention in the " Red Rover." This expectation would have 
been comparatively well founded had the announcement been that of a Naval Biography, Here, an 
allowable minuteness of detail would have given vigor and vitality to the narration, and the person- 
al adventures of the several heroes would have been overspread, in the simple discussion of fact 
with all the warm hues of the most spirit-stirring romance. In no general naval record, however, 
should we look too confidently for interest, beyond that grave species which is attached to the mere 
statement of fact. In records of our own marine, especially, we should look for little farther than 
this. The story of the simple events of our expeiience (for we are a nation of single ships) must 
always be deficient in that excitement which is derivable from the unity and majesty of the combined 
operations of fleets. Here then our sea-history labors under disadvantages not experienced by that 
of Europe. The tales we have to tell, of detached combat after combat, can form, at best, but a series 
of monotonous episode, where if the mind seeks, as it will, for connexion, this can only be establish- 
ed by means of a diy and barren mass of documental and statistical detail. 

Notwithstanding these difficulties, however, (whose importance we have by no means adequately 
pointed out) Mr. Cooper has succeeded in writing a book which cannot fad to do him lasting honor, 
not more in a literary point of view, than as affording evidence of the final triumph of his kindlier 
and more manly feelings over the promptings of Satan and the spleen. The very preface is redolent 
of a returning good humor — of a recovered modesty — of a resuscitated common sense. Mr. Cooper 
is evidently Mr. Cooper once again, and as such we most cordially welcome him home to the good 
XT ill, and to the affections, of his countrymen. That he, in preference to any one, should have writ- 
ten the Naval History of the United States, is a matter about which there is but little difference of 
opinion; and we rejoice, from the bottom of our heart, that he has arisen to the good work, from the 
moral death which has so long enwrapped him, while it is yet a convenient season for the under- 
taking — ^before the veteran actors in the drama have all passed away from among us — while there is 
yet many a tongue to tell what the eyeshave seen — many a living witness to the gallant and glorious 
exploits which have had so much to do in the rendering us, and in the preserving us, a free people. 


It is not our design, of course, to speak at length of any portion of a History which will speak scr 
very eloquently for itself. The narrative commences with the first settlement by the English, pro- 
ceeds with some details respecting the earliest achievements of the rival French and British colonies, 
connected with a clear and rapid survey of the condition of the maritime powers of Europe, and 
after discussing, in a masterly manner, every momentous event in the annals of our Navy, terminates 
•with the contest of 1812. The war of the Revolution is brought to a close about the middle of the 
first volume, and the more important subsequent occurrences occupy the lemainder of the publication. 

The work, as a whole, has, wc think, all the great requisites of a proper History — distinctness of 
narration, rigorous impartiality, an evident anxiety for truth, and a concise philosophical discussion 
of fact, rather than a shadowy speculation upon motive. Every similar book, as a matter of course, 
is liable to objection — to cavil — in regard to its detail ; and, in the present case, we have heard oc- 
casional censures upon which we scarcely think it necessary to comment. Battles, whether by sea 
or land, (and battles form our staple here) are seldom witnessed by distinct authorities from the same 
points of observation, and this fact alone is sufficient to account for a thousand immaterial discre- 

In legard to style, let us hear Mr. Cooper himself. 

" Some of the greatest writers of the age have impaired the dignity of their works, by permitting 
the peculiarities which have embelllslied their lighter labors to lessen the severity of manner that 
more properly distinguishes narratives of truth. This danger has been foreseen in the present in- 
stance, though the nature of the subject, which seldom rises to the level of general history, affords a 
constant temptation to offend. A middle course has been adopted, which, it is hoped, while some 
defects of execution may probably be detected, will be found on the whole to be suited to a recital of 
facts, in the familiar form that, in a measure, the incidents have demanded." 

The mere English of our author was never, at any period, remarkable for precision of arrange- 
ment, and however easily, in a work of pure romance, such defect may be disregarded, we must own 
that it derogates very materially from the beauty of an otherwise excellent historic style. In the 
volumes before us sentences occur, by far too frequently, where positive ambiguity arises from sheer 
negligence in regard to the ordinary proprieties of grammar. 

" Republicanism itself is brought into disrepute, in denying the just rewards of long services to 
officers, by attaching to it the weakness of a neglect of incentives, an ignorance on the subject of the 
general laws of discipline, and the odium of injustice. It is by forgetting the latter quality, more 
through the indifference of a divided power, than from any other cause, that republics have obtained 
their established character of being ungrateful." 

Here is great confusion of expression. By '' the latter quality" justice is intended, while 2??jus- 
tice is implied. 

" A territorial aristocracy, promotion, in both the army andthenav}', is the inevitable fruit of favor, 
or of personal rank." 

This sentence, as it stands, is utterly unintelligible, and can only be comprehended at all by placing 
before it the words immediately antecedent — which are " The nature of the English government is 
no secret." It now appears that the English government is " a territorial aristocracy." But every 
properly constructed sentence should have within itself the means of its own (grammatical) compre- 

" The man who, refusing to adopt remedies that he believes unsuited to his constitution, is dis- 
creet, when he carries his system so far as to forget to look for others to supply their places, becomes 
careless and culpable." 

This exceedingly ambiguous proposition is rendered perfectly plain by merely a different arrange 
ment of the same words. 

" The man who is discreet in refusing to adopt remedies that he believes unsuited to his constitu- 
tion, becomes careless and culpable when he carries his system so far as to forget to look for others 
to supply their places." But upon this topic quite enough has been said. 

Mr. Cooper's observations on the subject of our general marine policy are, v/e think, among the 
very best portions of his book. They are strikingly comprehensive in view, and evince a profound 
knowledge of the true incentives of human action. Our limits will permit us to give but a small por- 
tion of his remarks. 

"A careful review of these facts and principles must satisfy all who study the subject, that the 
United States of America have never resorted to the means necessary to dovelope, or even in a limit- 
ed sense, to employ their own naval resources. As a consequence, they have never yet enjoyed the 
advai^tage of possessing a powerful marine in time of war, or have felt its influence in sustaining 
their negotiations, and in supporting their national rights in a time of peace. As yet the ships of 
America have done little more than show the world what the republic might do with its energies duly 
directed, and its resources properly developed, by demonstrating the national aptitude for this species 
of warfare. 

" But the probationary period of the American marine is passing away, and the body of the peo- 
ple are beginning to look forward to the appearance of their fleets on the ocean. It is no longer 
thought there is an unfitness in the republic's possessing heavy ships ; and the opinion of the country 

in this, as in other respects, is slowly rising to the level of its wants. Still many lingering prejudices 
remain in the public mind, in connexion with this all important subject, and some that threaten the 
service with serious injury. Of these, the most prominent are, the mode in which the active vessels 
are employed ; a neglect of the means of creating seamen for the public service ; the fact that there 
is no force in commission on the Ameiican coast; the substitution of money for pride and self-respectj 
^s the aim of military men ; and the impairing of discipline, and lessening the deference for the jusr 
tice of the state, by the denial of rank. 

" Undei the present system of employing the public vessels, none of the peculiar experience that 
belongs to the higher objects of the profession is obtained. While ships may be likened to regiments 
as regards the necessity of manoeuvring together, there is one important feature in which they are 
totally dissimilar. It may be pretty safely thought that one disciplined regiment will march as far, 
«adure as much, and occupy its station as certainly as another, but no such calculation can be made 
■an ships. The latter are machines, and their qualities may be improved by human ingenuity, when 
their imperfections have been ascertained by experiment. Intelhgent comparisons are the first step 
m this species of improvement. 

*' It will be clear to the dullest mind, that the evolutions of a fleet, and, in a greater or less degree. 
Its success, must be dependent on the qualities of its poorest vessels ; since its best cannot abandon 
their less fortunate consorts to the enemy. The naval history of the world abounds with instances^ 
in which the efforts of the first sea-captains have been frustrated by the defects of a portion of the 
ships under their command. To keep a number of vessels in compact order, to cause them to prer 
serve their weatherly position in gales and adverse winds, and to bring them all as near as possible 
up to the standard that shall be formed by the most judicious and careful commander, is one of the 
iiighest aims of naval experience. On the success of such eflorts depend the results of naval evolu- 
tions more frequently than on any dexterity in fighting guns. An efficient fleet can no more be 
formed without practice in squadrons, than an efficient army without evolutions in brigades. By not 
keeping ships in squadrons, there will also be less emulation, and consequently less improvement. 

" Under the present system three principal stations aie maintained ; two in the Atlantic, and one 
in the Mediterranean. On neither of these stations would the presence of a vessel larger than a sloop 
of war be necessary, on ordinary occasions, provided a force of heavy ships could periodically and un- 
expectedly appear on all. It is seldom that a single ship of the line is required on any sei-vice; and 
it is ceitain that a solitary two-decked vessel could have no great influence on those important in- 
terests which it is the practice of the rest of Christendom to refer to the agency of fleets. By putting 
in commission six or eight two-decked ships, and by causing them to appear, from time to time, on 
all the more important stations this side of the two great southern capes, the country, at no material 
additional cost, would obtain the several objects of practice in fleets, of comparative trials of the 
qualities of the most important class of vessels in the navy, of a higher state of discipline, and of a 
vast improvement in the habits of subordination on the part of commanders, a defect that all expe* 
rience shows is peculiar to the desultory mode of service now in use, and which has produced more 
naval disasters in the world than probably any other one cause. In a word, the principal ends of a 
siavy can no more be obtained, by the services of single ships, than wars can be decided by armies 
cut up into battalions." 

JLedure on the Study of Histwy, applied to the Progress of CiviUzatimi. Delivered by Appoint 
merit before the Union Literary Society, May 2d, 1839. 

A brilliant and bold production, bearing the impress of the mind of its author. With the tenets, 
liowever, here so well supported by Mr.Dimitry we will not altogether coincide. They border sMueT 
what too closely, in our apprehension, upon the eloquent madness of Turgot, Price, Priestly, Con', 
dorcet, and De Stael — yet, strange to say, none of these names occur in the Lecture with the excep- 
tion perhaps, of that of Priestly, in an incidental manner! There can be no doubt, however, at what 
sparkling fountains our author has imbibed his scarcely tenable notions of the perfectibility of man. 
For to this end, more than to any other, tend the doctrines and the arguments of the essay. In thfl 
position itself we have little faith, but great faith in the ability of our fiiend to make the best of a bad 
topic. This, in the present instance, he has undoubtedly accomplished, as the spirited passage aa- 
iiexed will testify more fully than any assertion of our own. 

" The highest degree of perfection to which man is, by nature, destined, grows out of the free an4 
complete development of his individuality, under the influences of beauty, goodness, and truth, aruj 
of his close and brotherly union with his fellow-laborers on earth. The principle of human perfeo» 
tibility will, therefore, when fully developed, induce a state in which mind and matter, reconciled to 
each other, will produce a lofty and splendid harmony; in which each special order of mind will find 
a corresponding object, and a proper sphere of action and usefulness ; in which man, instead of wast, 
ing his powers in fruitless strifes, will exert them in subjugating material nature; in which the iHr 


jury, accruing to one member, and profiting no one, shall be considered, by ail, as wrong inflicted 
on the whole of society ; in which the shackling of evil passions will put an end to the conflict be- 
tween virtue and vice — a conflict which will be survived by a generous emulation, only, among the 
worthy, to do the most good ; a state of rest, which will not be indolent inaction, and a state of action, 
which shall have ceased to be tumultvious agitation. Then, and then only, shall the promises of the 
martyr-God be realized. Then, and then only, shall it be truly said of man that he loves his neigh- 
bor as himself; for he will love him as a part of a whole, of which he himself is but another part. 
Then, and then only, shnll Japheth's daring seed, as the Roman lyrist calls us, i-econquer the sym- 
bolical Aiden, forfeited by the common ancestor, exulting in the choice spoils which they shall have 
gathered during their centuries of toil in the fields of the arts and the sciences. 

Such is the society which awaits the futurity of the world. Under what combination of circum- 
stance and time it shall be fashioned, cannot be ascertained. But history unerringly points to it — 
reason sanctions it ; while, at the same time, it teaches that it shall be given to man to compass its 
attainment ; for reason embodies certain invariable principles which, when once asserted and grasped 
by the people, ai'e used by them as a resting point for farther and extended operations. In regard to 
the principles themselves, their progress will no longer consist in variation, innovation, or change j 
but their immutability shall be the basis of all improvement, which, out of this condition, would be 
liable to the same oscillations and doubts, m the midst of which man has hitherto all but fruitlessly 
consumed his powers and his strength. Now, those principles will obtain so soon as natural law — 
I mean the law deduced from human reason, as a criterion of truth — the law inherent to our sociable 
nature, and harmonising with humanity in all places and time ; so soon as that law, in accordance 
with the moral law of Christiarrity, shall have every where supplanted the conventional law, which 
is not based, however we may try to conceal it, upon the general constitution of human nature, but 
upon the partial interests of individuals, corporations, cities, provinces, and States — upon the neces- 
sity of circumstances and the will of the lawmaker. 

That such a society may bs realized in a given time we are bound to believe with as much cer- 
tainty as we believe that we are gifted with the exercise of reason. We must, otherwise, surrender 
to the harrowing conviction that our appearance here is but an aimless and fantastic farce ; that some 
evil genius, after having engraved in our nature an instinct of that which is impossible, mocks at out 
insatiable appetences and our panting efforts round a charmed circle, in which we ever return to the 
starting point ; that, after all, the tradition of Tantalus is no fable ; and that this world is but a vast 
gehenna, irr which perpetual torture and perpetual disappointment are the inevitable lot of man. But 
how can we withhold our faith from a doctrine co-extensive with the mind, and brilliant as hope 
itself? A doctrine for which the Savior suffered on earth ; and which martyrs and sages have vin- 
dicated with their blood and their lives, offered up in testimony of its truth 1 Many may view these 
monitions of history as phantasms of the brain ; oi brand rational inductions as Utopian dreams. Let 
them ! When the first troglodyte issued from his cavern into the social world, and returned to his 
fellow-intelligent brutes with the story of civilization abroad, they met his words with derision and 
scorn ! They, bound in the darkness of their caves and the filth of their clay hovels, could not realize 
the splendors of the palace and the comforts of its life. They too — had the supercilious word, in- 
vent€d by their imitators, been known — they, too, would have exclaimed, Utopia! They, whose 
inch-deep intellect, or whose all-controlling prejudices, stop at the surface of things, and, viewing the 
evils only which still afflict society, pronoimce the notiotr of perfectibility to be chimerical and vain, 
they do not intelligently attend to the sober teachings of reason and truth. Marr, as a sensual being, 
belongs to the world of the senses ; and that is an habitual state of war between his physical powers'— 
a bellum omnium contra omnes — a war of all against all. But, again, man, as a rational being, also 
belongs to the world of mind ; and, as such, he is destined, by the law of his spiritual nature, to subf 
due the material world. The complement of that law will be to defeat the belligerance of material 
forces; and, at some providential period, to assert the full and definite triumph of reason, and the 
consequent prevalence of happiness and peace. Individuals now enjoy that triumph of reason and 
blessing of peace. Why should they not extend to the collective being called society 1 To argue 
that it cannot, is to argue that there is no essential law that will equally apply to man in. his indi- 
vidual and social capacity : it is to advance an unnatural, an anti-social, and a degrading paradox : 
it is to strike at the vitality of virtue, through the freedom of man's will, and madly to insult the 
superhuman wisdom of Him who made man the proxy of his power!" 

Franda^s Reign of Terror, being a Sequel to Letters on Paraguay. By J, P. and W. P. Bof 
hinson. E. L. Carey and A. Hart, Philadelphia. 

The " Letters on Paraguay" were exceedingly well received by the reading puDlic, and this is a 
matter not at all to be wondered at. Previous to their publication, little, comparatively, was knovm 
of the country they described, and that little was shadowy and vague. We knew that Paraguay 
existed ; that it was an inland region of South America ; that it had been the seat of the Jeauite. 


that it had become independent of the mother country, and finally fallen under the dominion of a 
certain Doctor Francia. All farther than this has been a knowledge of recent date, due to the litera- 
ry labors of the Robinsons. 

Dr. Francia is, beyond doubt, one of the most remarkable characters of the age, and a man whose 
entire nature has been misunderstood. An array of startling facts here given, will go far to prove 
him a stern despot and a blood-thirsty tyrant, rather than the prudent and amiable pacificator which 
our imaginations have hitherto painted him. 

Isabel; or Sicily. A Pilgrimage, By Henry T, Tuckerman. Lea and Blanchard, Phila- 

Mr. Tuckerman is known as the author of the "Italian Sketch Book," and of many very readable 
articles in the magazines and annuals. Without much of profundity, of originality, or vigor, he is 
more than usually pure in style, and orthodox in sentiment. The present work will, we think, greatly 
enhance his reputation as a graceful and agreeable writer. The general plan has apparently been 
suggested by that of Bulwer's Pilgrims of the Rhine — although here the similarity ceases. 
Frederick Otley, an American gentleman, travels in Europe with the view of alleviating his grief 
for the loss of a beloved wife, leaving in his southern home a daughter, in charge of her uncle, his 
brother. The absence of the traveller is long continued, and the daughter, having grown to wo- 
manhood, forms the design of surprising him by a visit in Sicily, of which countiy Otley, in his last 
letter, expressed an intention of making the tour. The uncle accompanies her on the voyage, and the 
volume concludes with the re-union of the family. The main, indeed the whole design, is to pre- 
sent the reader with a picturesque account of Sicily, and with the author's own reflections during a 
tour in that comparatively little travelled portion of the old world. The chain of fiction above men- 
tioned, (which appears to us somewhat supererogatory) is given, says Mr. T., for the purpose of 
avoiding that egotistical tone from which it is dithcult to escape in a formal journal, as well as to 
obviate the necessity of dwelling upon those unimportant details and circumstances which aie com- 
mon to every tour m Europe, and therefore too familiar to be interesting. There is an air of quiet 
enthusiasm pervading the whole of tliis little book, which, insensibly, has its influence upon the 
mind of the reader — disposing him to think well of Mr. Tuckerman as a man, not less than to be 
pleased with him as an author. There is much in his character, as we gather it from " Isabel," of 
the warmest poetical impulse — of a perfectly unaffected romance. 

Memoirs of Celebrated Womeji, Edited by G. P. R. James, Esq., author of De V Orme, Life of 
the Black Prince, etc. etc. E. L. Carey and A. Hart, Philadelphia. 

In general we dislike such title-pages as this. There is a misty atmosphere of humbug all about 
them, through which we peer with a suspicious eye. Time was when the duties of an editor were 
matter of perfect simplicity — at least so far as concerned the public comprehension of these duties; 
but " we have changed all that" as the world grows older, and in every such announcement as we 
find here, there always \\es perdu a very pretty little enigma. 

In its solution there are several points to be considered. Sometimes, as in the case of those su- 
perb passionate tales the "Recollections of a Chaperon," the work will be written, as well as edited, 
by a Lady Dacre. Here there is an affectation of modesty — yet the affectation is not altogether un- 
graceful. Of all the modern editorship this is, beyond doubt, the species least objectionable. 

The editorship protective is cf a different class. Here, as in the case of Mr. Willis, (whose fine 
taste should have taught him more intelligible things,) the author makes a somewhat droll bow to a 
foreign audience, holding fast (God only knows why) to the arm of a Barry Cornwall. However, 
there is no harm in the world done, and the worst that can happen is a good hearty laugh on the 
part of the public. 

But there is a third order of this editorial humbuggery which is positively no joke, and which 
should never be regarded as such by any decent individual. An example is found in the case of the 
London publisher, Bentley, who had the downright impudence to get up, some time ago, a reprint 
of our own admirable " Nick of the Woods," and announce it (no doubt to the great edification of 
Dr. Bird,) as under the editorial supervision of Mr. Benjamin D'Israeli. 

In the present instance Mr. James evinces, we think, a sort of half consciousness of being engaged 
in a rather silly affair. The whole preface has the countenance oiun mouton qui reve. " To day," 
he says, with the air of an injured man, " it is necessary for an editor to state what he really has 
done for the work he edits, lest any false impression should be adopted by the pubhc." Having 
premised thus much, he goes on to show very clearly that in the case now in question he has done — 
piecisely nothing at all. We could not wish a better commentary upon the whole editorial system. 


The work itself (which we are told, is by an aunt of the author of Richelieu) is a plainly written 
compilation of interesting matters, sufficiently familiar to every ordinary reader of history. We have 
memoiis of Joan of Arc, of Margaret of Anjou, of Lady Jane Grey, of Anna Commena, of Madame 
de Maintenon, of Elizabeth of England, and of Donna Maria Pacheco. 

Advice to a Young Gentleman on entering Society. By the Author of the " Laws of Etiquette" 
Lea and Blanchard. Philadelphia. 

Taking up tliis volume with a strong feeling of prejudice, induced by a certain ad captandum 
air in the title, our attention was ri incited by the very initial sentences, and before getting through 
with the second page we acknowledged the hand of a master. The book is replete with a wordly 
wisdom even profound ; it is the product of a vigorous and cultivated mind, imbued with a thorough 
knowledge of its subject, and discussing it con amore. 

The leading truths here inculcated, are, we think, the more important, because, being through 
their very nature confined to superficialities, or apparently so confined, the world at large is easily 
disposed to fall in with those frequent opinions of the grave and learned which declare them inessen- 
tial. But in this case we challenge the judgment of the tribunal, and will not abide by any decision 
which shall be " grave and learned." Pour savoir ce qu'il est (^DieuJ ilfaut etre Dieu meme, says 
the Baron de Bielfeld, in speaking of a more august subject ; but the spirit of his remark is abund- 
antly applicable to the present matter in hand. To form any just estimate of the importance of 
habitual intercourse with our fellows, and, more especially, of an attentive regard to the modelling 
and polishing of our social habits, we must already be men of the world — we must have felt all the 
miseries of a niauvaise honte, and have revelled in all the luxury of a disenthralment from its bonds. 

Upon the evils of an absolutely unsocial eKistence it is folly to comment. He who has, at any 
period, entered with heart into the proper spirit of a high society, will find even a temporary with- 
drawal from its usages (urged, let us say, by necessity, or induced by disgust, or sought for the se- 
verer purposes of study) followed by very serious inconveniences, often by poignant mortifications, 
always by a thorough conviction of man's unfitness for such existence, and of its enervating and de- 
basing influence upon his intellectual powers, if not upon the whole organization of his moral being. 
Collecting and concentrating in his retirement an imaginary strength, the solitary student makes at 
length, for some long designed effort, a step into the world of busy life — but this step is feebly and 
irresolutely advanced. A farther progress fully awakens him to his weakness and his folly. The 
volition is in abeyance, which should vivify his forces, and impart to them decision. He now feels 
and perhaps acknovvledges his error. 

We could name no book whatever, in which are better exemplified the truth of opinions such as 
these than in the unpretending volume now before us. In almost every respect it is a valuable and 
exceedingly well written treatise. Among the detailed precepts which form its body there is, per- 
haps, little to be found which the letters of Lord Chesterfield have not already given. But without 
the oflTensive heartlessness of those very objectionable writings, this American work equals them, at 
least, in all their reputable poists — in vigor of thought and diction, in acumen, in practicability, and 
in eyideiaces of wordly knowledge. 

A Synopsis of Natural History ,- embracing the Natural History of Animals, with Human and 
General Animal Physiology, Botany, Vegetable Physiology, and Geology. Translated from 
the latest French Edition of C. Lemmonnier, Professor of Natural History in the Boyal Col- 
lege of Charlemagne ,- luith Additions from the Works of Cuvier, Dumaril, Lacepede, etc. Ar- 
ranged as a Text Book for Schools. By Thomas Wyatt, A. M., Author of Elements of Botany, 
a Manual of Conchohgy, etc. Thomas Wardle, Philadelphia. 

Mr. Wyatt is favorably known to the public as the author of an exceedingly well arranged, ac- 
curate, and beautifully illustrated " Conchohgy," and has been mainly instrumental, we believe, in 
drawing that public attention to the science in this country which is now so obviously manifested. 
We hope that his success with the present publication will be commensurate with the wider range 
which he has taken. It cannot be denied that a synopsis such as he now puts forth has been long 
a desideratum. While there has been no deficiency of school books in any one of the sciences em- 
braced within a proper course of Natural History, it must still have occurred to many as singular, 
that in a study whose very existence may be said to depend upon method, there should have been, 
hitherto, no attempt at collecting the parts into an easily discernible whole. 

As the work of Mr. Wyatt professes to be simply a translation of the well known Tableaux of 
M. Lemmonnier, we need say little more in the way of recommendation than that all the useful 
spirit of the original has been preserved — and this we say from personal knowledge, and the closest 

62 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

inspection and collation. In changing the tabular form of the French publication to one better suit- 
ing the purposes of our x\merican schools, some little latitude was of course admissible and unavoid- 
able. The book is a large octavo, beautifully printed on fine paper, and illustrated by forty-nine well 
executed plates. Copies, colored with accuracy, under the superintendence of Mr. James Ackermann, 
are for sale at our principal bookstores. The whole work does credit to all parties, and should be 
patronized, not less for its intrinsic value than as a matter of just poUcy, by all Philadelphians who 
have the publishing interest of the city at heart. 

Sketches of Public Characters, Discourses, and Essays, To which is added a Dissertation on the 
Eloquence of the Ancietits. By Henry Lm-d Brougha7n. Philadelphia, E. L. Carey and A. 

This is an exceedingly interesting work, and should be in the hands of every one who reads at 
all. The first volume is made up of the mtroductions to the different speeches of Lord Brougham, 
which were intended to elucidate the history of certain measures discussed, and, incidentally, of the 
periods to which they related. The aim is, to give a pictui'e of the times, in an account of the per- 
sons who bore the chief part in their transactions, in the supposition that the course of state affairs^ 
their posture at any given period, and the nature of the different measures propounded from time to 
time, can only be well understood by giving an accurate representation of the characters of those 
who figured most remarkably upon the stage. This portion of the book embraces a world of detail 
concerning Cobbett, Stephen, Perceval, Roscoe, Lord Castlereagh, Homer, Wilberforce, Bentham, 
Sir James Mackintosh, Canning, Huskisson, Grattan, and others. 

The second volume is occupied with Lord Brougham's inaugural discourse on being installed 
Lord Rector of the University of Glasgow ; practical obsei-vations upon the education of the people ; 
and a dissertation on the eloquence of the Ancients ; with an appendix of translations from De- 
mosthenes. In the matters here contained. Lord Brougham fully sustains his reputation for sound 
scholarship, as well as profound and luminous criticism. The whole work is imbued with the racy 
spirit of the author's own intellect — an intellect essentially Demosthenic in the almost rude strength, 
directness, and impetuosity of its operations. We cannot too pointedly press this excellent publi- 
cation upon the attention of our readers. The following passage is from a paper on marriage, di- 
vorce, and legitimacy. 

" To illusti-ate by example his (Sir Wdliam Scott's) singularly refined and pungent wit in con- 
versation, or the happy and unexpected quotations with which he embellished it, or the tersely told 
anecdotes with which he enlivened it, without for an instant fatiguing his audience, would be diffi- 
cult — ^because it is of the nature of the refined essence in which the spirit of the best society con- 
sists, not to keep. When some sudden, and somewhat violent changes of opinion were imputed to 

a learned judge, who was always jocosely termed Mrs , " Varium et mutabile semper fcemina" 

was Sir William Scott's remark. A celebrated physician having said, somewhat more flippantly 
than beseemed the gravity of his cloth, " Oh, you know. Sir William, after forty a man is always 
either a fool or a physician!" " May'nt he be both. Doctor 1" was the arch rejoinder, with a most 
aich leer, and insinuating voice, half drawled out. " A vicar was once," (said his lordship,* presi- 
ding at the dirmer of the Admiralty sessions) " so wearied out with his parish clerk confining himself 
entirely to the 100th psalm, that he remonstrated, and insisted upon a variety, which the man pro- 
mised ; but old habit proving too strong for him, the old words were as usual given out next Sun- 
day, ' All people that on earth do dwell.' Upon this the vicar's temper could hold out no longer, 
and, jutting his head over the desk, he cried, ' Damn all people that on earth do dwell !' — a very 
compendious form of anathema," added the learned chief of the spiritual court." 

* Sir W. Scott was, durmg the latter years of his life, created a peer, by the title of Lord Stow- 
ell ; but it is by his former name that he is known to the profession, and to the world. 






AUGUST, 1839. 



Mr. Hancock here represents a veteran Scotch gamekeeper, enjoying himself with his pipe, by 
his own homely fireside, in company with his dogs, who appeal to partake with him of the satisfac- 
tion attending a good day's diversion. From the bald head and wrinkled brow of this experienced 
sportsman, he must be nearly approaching that period which is called by the Psalmist " the ao-e of 
man ;" still, from, the muscular frame of his body, and the undiminished size of his limbs, it is evident 
that he has many more years' work left in him, the almost sm'e result of the health-giving pursuits 
he has followed, and the pure air he has breathed, since he breathed at all. 

The dogs here represented, are rare specimens of their sort. The one apparently the most at- 
tached to his master, is a fine Russian Setter, a breed much esteemed on the moors, from their ge- 
neral hardiness of constitution, and being less given to thirst than those of the English kind ; which 
is a great desideratum to the grouse shooter, in many parts of Great Britain, where good limpid 
water is sometimes not to be met with, in a beat of considerable extent. In their natural formation 
and effect, they are far from being the most beautiful and attractive of the canine species ; in fact 
they have neither that uniformity of shape, nor elegance of figure, which so much distinguish the 
English and Irish setter ; neither do they exhibit the pleasing variegation in color, which we find 
in them : — in short, their beauty may be said, in a great part, to consist in their ugliness, the true 
test of their pure blood being a long wiry coat, from which their heads are not even free, extend- 
ing beyond the eyes, nearly to their exclusion from our view, and oftentimes with a moustache which 
would satisfy the Great Mogul. There is also another point of difference between the breeds. The 
Russian generally stands to his game and dogs, after the manner of our pointer, which is an ad- 
vantage in a wide range of moors. This dog is also good as a retriever, and by no means shy of 
taking water. 

The dog lying down by the fire, is a portrait of a blood-hound, the property of the late lord 
Middleton, of WoUaton Hall, Nottinghamshire, England, who was celebrated for his dogs, of almost 
every description used in the field, — as well as for having been a master of fox-hounds during the 
greater part of his life, and considered a superior judge of the animal, (dog,) generally. The blood- 
hound, or Sleuthe-hound of the Scots, although a fine subject for the painter, is not a general favo- 
rite, from the character he bears of decided enmity to man ; for which he is indebted, not so much to 
his nature, as to a property ascribed to him, of pursuing human beings by their footsteps, and not 
quitting the scent until he has seized them, or marked them to their place of retreat. That there has 
existed, and does exist, a species of dog of this description, trained to discover the haunts of robbers 

VOL. V. — NO. II. C 



-and to trace the road of run-away negroes, there does not remain a doubt. We learn from Rains- 
ford's " History of St. Domingo," that they were trained to the scent of the human footstep, by being 
fed on blood, and rewarded at the end of their long chase, by being encouraged to pull down a figure 
^representing a negro, stuffed with the blood and entrails of beasts. On the authority of Slrabo, they 
.did more than this; they were made the means of attack, in a body, on the Gauls, and within our 
«own time, of bringing back the run-away negroes of Jamaica to their duty, having been hired, at a 
•great expense, from Cuba, for the purpose. But there is as much difference between the dogs now 
alluded to, and that which we call the English blood-hound, as there is between an English fox- 
hound and an Irish greyhound. In fact, we are well persuaded, that the animals hired on this oc- 
casion from Cuba, were, as nearly as possible, the sort of animal that the celebrated sportsman, Nim- 
rod, saw, and gave a description of, in his " German Tour," at the seat of Count Hahn, in Germany ; 
which are not altogether unlike the old Irish greyhound, with the exception of being possessed of 
still more power, as well as great apparent ferocity, — which indeed, they stand in need of, as they 
are used for the chase of the wild hog. It may be recollected by some of the readers of this work, 
that he described the way in which these boar-hounds, as they are called, were kennelled, to guard 
against danger to strangers. They were chained to the walls of a long gallery-like building, at a 
certain distance from, and opposite to, each other, only leaving a suflicient space for persons to walk 
between them, quite secure from their gripe ; for they were most of them savage, and exhibited sundry 
scars from the tusks of the beasts with which they had contended. 

When speaking of those dogs, he thus expressed myself as to their kind : " They seem to be a 
cross of the old mastiff and the lurcher greyhound, but with more power than belongs to each indi- 
■vidually ;" whereas, the old and true blood-hound is supposed to have sat for the picture which 
Shakspeare drew of the dog of the highest repute in the sixteenth century: — 

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind, 
So flewed, so sanded ; and their heads are hung 
With ears that sweep away with the morning dew ; 
Crook-kneed and dew-lapp'd, like Thessalian bulls ; 
Slow in pursuit, but match'd in mouth like bells. 
Each vmder each. 

Mr. Tickell, the friend and fellow-laborer of Addison, thus introduces the blood-hound, in his 
" Poem on Hunting," and with the full license of a poet : — 

Thy care be first the various gifts to trace. 
The minds and genius of the latrant race ; 
In powers distinct the different clans excel, 
In sight, or swiftness, or sagacious smell. 
By wiles ungen'rous some surprise the prey, 
And some by courage win the doubtful day. 
Seest thou the greyhound, how, with glance severe. 
From the close heid he marks the destin'd deer : 
How every nerve the greyhound's stretch displays. 
The hare preventing to her airy maze ; 
The luckless prey how treach'rous tumblers gain. 

And dauntless wolf-dogs shake the lion's mane 1 
O'er all the blood-hound boasts superior skill. 
To scent, to view, to turn, and boldly kill ; 
His fellows' vain alarms rejects with scorn. 
True to the masters' voice and learned horn. 
His nostrils oft, if ancient fame sing true, 
Trace the sly felon through the tainted dew ; 
Once snuff'd, he follows with unalter'd aim, 
Nor odors lure him from the chosen game ; 
Deep-mouth'd he thunders, and inflam'd he views, 
Springs on relentless, and to death pursues. 

We do not, however, wish to be understood to asseit, that a dog, known by the term " blood- 
hound," has not been made use of in Great Britain — in Scotland in particular, in the civil wars of 
Wallace and Bruce, for example, whose poetical historians relate very interesting anecdotes touching 
the service they rendered their masters ; as, likewise, on the confines of England and Scotland, where 
the borderers were continually preying upon the herds and flocks of their neighbors ; and in En- 
gland as well, in the early part of the last century, when deer-stealing prevailed so much, and was 
.accounted a capital offence. The celebrated Colonel Thornton, of Thornville Royal, Yorkshire, 
England, indeed, had a leash of these animals during his residence at Clapham, in Surry, within the 
.last half century, which were the terror of the neighborhood, partly from the name they bore ; — 
neither do I doubt that such dogs might have been, in the course of time, brought to hunt the dry 
foot of man, having been trained to hunt it when touched with something that left a strongei scent 
behind it. 

But we must not give credit to all the marvellous stories handed down to us of dogs and their 
/breeds. We read of those which were individually more than a match for the lion ; — perhaps it was 
in honor of the memory of one of this description, that Alexander the Great gave his name (Perditas) 
to a city ! Plutarch speaks of dogs of such courage as outstrips all we experience in our own breed 
of bull-dogs, forasmuch, as he says, they would suffer amputation of their limbs — aye, even of their 
_heads — rather than quit their hold ! ! 

_The two dogs on the right-hand in this picture, are what are called Deer-lurchers, in contradis- 



tinction to the term Deer-greyhound, and pecuUar to Scotland. It is difRcuIt to define this variety 
of dog ; but we may conclude that he is mongrel bred, of great power ; and resembling those which 
we are' told pulled down sixteen bucks, one day after dinner, in Cowdry Park, Sussex, for the amuse- 
ment of Queen Elizabeth. In fact, the word " lurcher" is not definable by the sportsman, farther 
than that it implies a fault— that of running foul— for which a thorough-bred modern greyhound is 
certain to obtain a halter. Perhaps the canis Gallicus, which is spoken of by Ovid, and held in such 
estimation among the ancients for his pot-filling accomplishments, was much such an animal as this, 
" as inferior in make and symmetry," as the editor of the " Courser's Manual" observes, " to the 
modern greyhound, as tbe hog-maned top-heavy cobs, which served as Hobson's choice of models to 
Phidias and his brother sculptors, were to Sorcerer and the Darley Arabian." 

The following description of the lurcher is given by Laurence (not good authority) in a work 
called " Scott's British Field Sports," but acknowledged to be from his pen. " The lurcher, a breed 
some years since on the decline, is a mongrel fquere—ii a mong)-eI, how can he call him of any- 
particular breed 1 He should have said variety,) between the greyhound and shepherd dog, or the 
smaller and mongrel mastiff. He is a poacher's dog, or kept for the purpose of deception, under the 
pretence of not being of the hunting species. The lurcher will catch up hares in an enclosed coun- 
try, and some of them, though slow, will run long and well." Some years back, a gentleman la 
North Wales had a breed of greyhounds, very raw-boned and wiry-haired, and so far resembhng the 
lurcher in their propensities— indeed we may say excelling him— as to have been often known to go 
out by themselves, and, having killed their hare, to bring her home in their mouths. As we are al- 
ways shy of the marvellous, these dogs were well known in the neighborhood of Pwllheli, a small 
market town in Carnarvonshire. That there did exist several varieties of the greyhound, is a fact well 
established ; and that they chaced indifferently the fox, the hare, or the buck. They would, indeed, 
on the fattest and best buck in a herd being shown to them, pursue it by the eye, and if lost for a 
time, recover it by their singularly distinguishing faculty of sight, even should it have regained the 
herd ; but we have reason to believe the species is now lost, and the Highland greyhound is become 
very 'scarce. The last-named dog is of great size and strength, covered with long rough hair, and 
was much esteemed by the powerful Highland chieftains in their magnificent hunting matches. The 
Irish greyhound, used in the chase of the wolf, is not now to be found m this part of Europe— at all 
events he is become rare. 



There is a charm in music's breath 

To chase the shades of care. 
To bid the wrinkled brow of age 

A gleam of sunshine wear — 
A magic spell that makes us yearn 

Again in joy to rove 
Through those glad scenes where first we heard 

The songs we used to love. 

It brings us back our youth again, 

The sunny days of life. 
It strews fresh roses o'er our paths, 

With blooming beauty life ; 
The echo of a long loved voice 

Now swelling strains above. 
Comes whispering in gentle notes 

Through songs we used to love. 

We hear the stranger's careless lip 

The pensive numbers swell, 
And the quick fluttering of our hearts 

Attests its mighty spell. 

And tears — thick tears, we fain would hide, 

The power of memory prove, 
And we call back the days of yore 

In songs we used to love. 

The songs, the songs we used to love. 

Oh ! we remember still 
How oft their echoes sweetly stole 

Around the grass-crown'd hill ; 
Like viewless wings, by spirits borne, 
! They seem'd through air to move, 
Still flying faster than pursued. 

The songs we used to love. 

Then come, young spirit of sweet sound — 

Bright soother — bring again 
The faded days of long ago. 

In thy remember'd strain. 
And, hand in hand, mine early friends 

Again with me shall roTe, 
And t will be a child once more. 

In songs we used to love. 




' I CANNOT just now remember when or where I first made the acquaintance of that truly fine-look- 
ing fellow, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C, Smith. "Some one did introduce me to the gen- 
tleman, I am sure — al some public meeting, I know very well — held about something of great im- 
portance, no doubt — and at some place or other, of this I feel convinced — whose name I have imac- 
countably forgotten. The truth is — that the introduction was attended, upon my part, with a degree 
of anxious and tremulous embarrassment which operated to prevent any definite impressions of 
either time or place. I am constitutionally nervous — this, with me, is a family failing, and I can't 
help it. In especial, the slightest appearance of mystery — of any point I cannot exactly compre- 
iend — puts me at once into a pitiable state of agitation. 

There was something, as it were, remarkable — yes, reinarhuhle, although this is but a feeble term 
t o express my full meanmg — about the entire individuality of the personage in question. What 
this something was, however, I found it impossible to say. He was, perhaps, six feet in height, and 
of a presence singularly commanding. There was an air distingue pervading the whole man, which 
spoke of high breeding, and hinted at high birth. Upon this topic — the topic of Smith's personal 
appearance — I have a kind of melancholy satisfaction in being minute. His head of hair would 
have done honor to a Brutus — nothing could be more richly flowing, or possess a brighter gloss. 
It was of a jetty black — which was also the color, or more properly the no color, of his unimagina- 
ble whiskers. You perceive I cannot speak of these latter without enthusiasm ; it is not too much 
to say that they were the handsomest pair of whiskers under the sun. At all events, they encircled, 
and at times partially overshadowed, a mouth utterly unequalled. Here were the most entirely even, 
and the most brilliantly white of all conceivable teeth. From between them, upon every proper oc- 
casion, issued a voice of suipassing clearness, melody, and strength. In the matter of eyes, my ac- 
quaintance was, also, pre-eminently endowed. Either one of such a pair was worth a couple of the 
ordinary ocular organs. They were of a deep hazel, exceedingly large and lustrous : and there was 
perceptible about them, ever and anon, just that amount of interesting obliquity which gives force 
to the pregnant observation of Francis Bacon — that " there is no exquisite beauty existing in the 
world without a certain degree of strangeness in the expression." 

The bust of the General was unquestionably the finest bust I ever saw. For your life you could 
jiot have found a fault with its wonderful proportion. This rare peculiarity set ofl' to great advantage 
3 pair of shoulders which would have called up a blush of conscious inferiority into the countenance 
of the marble Apollo. I have a passion for fine shoulders, and may say that I never beheld them 
in perfection before. His arms altogether were admirably modelled, and the fact of his wearing the 
right in a sling, gave a greater decision of beauty to the left. Nor were the lower limbs less mar- 
vellously superb. These were indeed the ne plus ultra of good legs. Every connoisseur in such 
Matters admitted the legs to be good. There was neither too much flesh, nor too little — neither 
rudeness nor fragility. I could not imagine a more graceful curve than that of the os femoris, and 
there was just that due gentle prominence in the rear of the fibula which goes to the conformation 
of a properly proportioned calf. I wish to God, my young and talented friend Chiponchipino, the 
sculptor, had but seen the legs of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. 

But although men so absolutely fine-looking are neither as plenty as reasons or blackberries, still 
I could not bring myself to believe that the remarkable something to which I alluded just now — 
that the odd air of Je ne sais quoi which hung about my new acquaintance — lay altogether, or in' 
fleed at all, in the supreme excellence of his bodily endowments. Perhaps it might be traced to the 
vnanner — yet here again I could not pretend to be positive. There was a primness, not to say stiff- 
ness, in his carriage — a degree of measured, and, if I may so express it, of rectangular precision, at- 
tending his every movement, which, observed in a more petite figure, would have had the least little 
savor in the world of affectation,pomposity, or constraint, but which, noticed in a gentleman of his 


undoubted dimension, was readily placed to the account of reserve, of hauteur, of a commendable 
sense, in short, of what is due to the dignity of colossal proportion. 

The kind friend who presented me to General Smith whispered in my ear, at the instant, some 
few words of comment upon the man. He was a remarkable man — a very remarkable man — in- 
deed one of the most remarkable men of the age. He was an especial favorite, too, with the ladies — 
chiefly on account of his high reputation for courage. 

" In that point he is unrivalled — indeed he is a perfect desperado — a downright fire-eater, and no 
mistake," said my friend, here dropping his voice excessively low, and thrilling me with the mystery 
of his tone. 

" A downright fire-eater, and no mistake — showed that, I should say, to some purpose, in the late 
tremendous swamp-fight away down south, with the Bugaboo and Kickapoo Indians. (Here my 
friend placed his forefinger to the side of his nose, and opened his eyes to some extent.) Bless my 
soul ! — blood and thunder, and all that ! — prodigies of valor ! — heard of him, of course 1 — you know 
he's the man" 

" Man alive, how do you do ? why how are ye 1 very glad to see ye, indeed !" here interrupted 
the General himself, seizing my companion by the hand as he drew near, and bowing stiflly, but 
profoundly, as I was presented. I then thought, (and I think so still,) that I never heard a clearer 
nor a stronger voice, nor beheld a finer set of teeth — but I must say that I was sorry for the inter- 
ruptionyws^ at that moment, as, owing to the whispers and insinuations aforesaid, my interest had 
been greatly excited in the hero of the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign. 

However, the delightfully luminous conversation of Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. O, 
Smith soon completely dissipated this chagrin. My friend leaving us immediately, we had quite a 
long tete d tete, and I was not only pleased but really instructed. I never heard a more fluent talker, 
or a man of greater general information. With becoming modesty, he forbore, nevertheless, to 
touch upon the theme I had just then most at heart — I mean the mysterious circumstances attending 
the Bugaboo war — and, on my own part, what I conceive to be a proper sense of delicacy forbade 
me to broach the subject, although, in truth, I was exceedingly tempted to do so. I perceived, too, 
that the gallant soldier preferred topics of philosophical interest, and that he delighted, especially, in. 
commenting upon the rapid march of mechanical invention. Indeed — lead him where I would— 
this was a point to which he invariably came back. 

" There is nothing at all like it," he would say ; " we are a wonderful people, and live in a won- 
derful age. Parachutes and rail-roads — man-traps and spring guns ! Our steam-boats are 'upon 
every sea, and the Nassau balloon packet is about to run regular trips (fare either way only twenty 
pounds sterling) between London and Timbuctoo. And who shall calculate the immense influence 
upon social life — upon arts — upon commerce — upon literature — Vv'hich will be the immediate result 
of the application of the great principles of electro-magnetics 1 Nor is this all, let me assure you I 
There is really no end to the march of invention. The most wonderful — the most ingenious — and 
let me add, Mr. — Mr. — Thompson, I believe is your name — let me add, I say, the most useful — the 
most truly useful mechanical contrivances, are daily springing up like mushrooms, if I may so ex- 
press myself, or, more figuratively, like — grasshoppers — like grasshoppers, Mr. Thompson — about 
us and — ah — ah — around us !" 

Thompson, to be sure, is not my name ; but it is needless to say that I left General Smith with a 
heightened interest in the man, with an exalted opinion of his conversational powers, and a deep 
sense of the valuable privileges we enjoy in living in this age of mechanical invention. My curi- 
osity, however, had not been altogether satisfied, and I resolved to prosecute immediate inquiry 
among my acquaintances touching the Brevet Brigadier General himself, and particularly respecting 
the tremendous events in which he performed so conspicuous a part — quorum pars magna fuit—^ 
during the Bugaboo and Kickapoo campaign. 

The first opportunity which presented itself, and which (horresco referens) I did not in the least 
scruple to seize, occurred at the church of the Reverend Doctor Drummummupp, where I found my- 
self established, one Sunday, just at sermon time, not only in the pew but by the side of that worthy 
and communicative little fiiend of mine. Miss Tabitha T. Thus seated, I congratulated myself, and 
with much reason, upon the very flattering state of affairs. If any person knew any thing about 
Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith, that person, it was clear to me, was Miss Tabitha 
T. We telegraphed a few signals, and then commenced, sotto voce, a brisk tete d tete. 

"Smith !" said she, in reply to my very earnest inquirj'- ; " Smith ! — why not General John A, 
B.C.! Bless me, I thought you A;net« all about Aim/ This is a wonderfully inventive age ! Hor- 
rid affair that ! — a bloody set of wretches, those Kickapoos ! — fought like a hero — prodigies of valor — 
immortal renown. Smith! — Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C.i — why, you know he's the 

" Man," here broke in Doctor Drummummup, at the top of his voice, and with a thump that came 
near knocking down the pulpit about our ears ; " man that is born of a woman hath but a short 
time to live — he cometh up and is cut down like a flower !" I started to the extremity of the pew, 
and perceived by the animated looks of the divine, that the wrath which had proved so nearly fatal 
to the pulpit had been excited by the whispers of the lady and myself. Theie was no help for it— 

68 burton's gentleman's magazine, 

so I submitted with a good grace, and listened, in all the martyrdom of a dignified silence, to the 
"balance of that very capital discourse. 

Next evening found me a somewhat late visiter at the Rantipole theatre, where I felt sure of satis- 
fying my curiosity at once, by merely stepping into the box of those exquisite specimens of affabili- 
ty and omniscience, the Misses Arabella and Miranda Cognoscenti. That fine tragedian, Climax, 
however, was doing lago to a very crowded house, and I experienced some little difficulty in 
making my wishes understood ; especially, as our box was next to the slips, and completely over- 
looked the stage. 

" Smith 1" said Miss Arabella, as she at length comprehended the purport of my query ; " Smith ? — 
why, not General John A. B. C!" 

" Smith 1" inquired Miranda, musingly. " God bless me, did you ever behold a finer figure V 

" Never, madam ; but do tell me" 

*' Or so inimitable grace 1" 

" Never, upon my word ! — but pray inform me" 

*' Or so just an appreciation of stage effect 1" 


" Or a more deUcate sense of the true beauties of Shakspeare 1 Be so good as to look at that 

" The devil !" and I turned again to her sister. 

•' Smith 1" said she, " why, not General John A. B. C! Horrid affair that, was'nt it 1 — great 
wretches, those Bugaboos-^savage and so on — but we live in a wonderfully inventive age ! — Smith"? 
— O yes! great man ! — -perfect desperado — immortal renown — prodigies of valor ! Never heard! ! 
(This was given in a scream.) Bless my soul I — why he's the man" 

" mandragora, 

Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world. 
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 
Which thou owd'st yesterday !" 

here roared out Climax just in my ear, and shaking his fist in my face all the time, in a way that I 
couldn't stand, and I wouldn't. I left the Misses Cognoscenti immediately, and went behind the 
scenes for the purpose of giving the scoundrel a sound thrashing. 

At the soiree of the lovely widow Mrs. Kathleen O'Trump, I was very confident that I should 
meet with no similar disappointment. Accordingly, I was no sooner seated at the card table, with, 
my pretty hostess for a partner, than I propounded those questions whose solution had become a 
matter so essential to my peace. 

♦' Smith V said my partner, " why not General John A. B. C! Horrid affair that, wasn't it 1 — 
diamonds, did you say 1 — terrible wretches, those Kickapoos ! — we are playing whist, if you please, 
Mr. Tattle — however, this is the age of invention, most certainly — the age, one may say — the age 
par excellence — speak French 1 — oh quite a hero — perfect desperado ! — no hearts, Mr. Tattle ! — I 
. don't believe it — immortal renown and all that — prodigies of valor ! Never heard.'.' — why, bless 
me, he's the man" 

*'Mann 1 — Captain Mann 1" here screamed some little feminine interloper from the farthest cor- 
ner of the room. " Are you talking about Captain Mann and the duel 1 — oh, I must hear — do tell 
— go on, Mrs. O'Trump ! — do now go on !" And go on Mrs. O'Trump did — all about a certain 
Captain Mann who was either shot or hung, or should have been both shot and hung. Yes ! Mrs. 
O'Trump, she went on, and I — I went off. There was no chance of hearing any thing farther that 
evening in regard to Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith. 

Still, I consoled myself with the reflection that the tide of ill luck would not run against me for 
ever, and so determined to make a bold push for information at the rout of that bewitching little 
angel, the graceful Mrs. Pirouette. 

" Smith 1" said Mrs. P., as we twirled about together in a pas de Zephyr, " Smith ? — why not 
General John A. B. C.l Dreadful business that of the Bugaboos, wasn't it"! — terrible creatures, 
those Indians ! — do turn out your toes, I really am ashamed of you — man of great courage, poor 
fellow — but this is a wonderful age for invention — O dear me, I'm out of breath — quite a desperado 
— prodigies of valor — never heard.'.' — can't believe it — I shall have to sit down and tell you — Smith ! 
why he's the man" 

" Man-fred, I tell you !" here bawled out Miss Bas-Bleu, as I led Mrs. Pirouette to a seat. " Did 
ever any body hear the like 1 It's Man-fred, I say, and not at all by any means Man-Friday." 
Here Miss Bas-Bleu beckoned to me in a very peremptory manner ; and I was obliged, will I nill I, 
to leave Mrs. P. for the purpose of deciding a dispute touching the title of a certain poetical drama 
of Lord Byron's. Although I pronounced, with great promptness, that the true title was Man-i^ri- 
day, and not by any means Man-fred, yet when I returned to seek for Mrs. Pirouette she was not 
to be discovered, and I made my retreat from the house in a very bitter spirit of animosity against 
the whole race of the Bas-Bleus. 


Matters had now assumed a really serious aspect, and I resolved to call at once upon my par- 
ticular friend, Mr. Theodore Sinivate — for I knew that here at least I should get something like de- 
finite information. 

" Smith ?" said he, in his well known peculiar way of drawling out his syllables ; " Smith? — why 
not General John A — B — C.I Savage affair that with the Kickapo-o-o-o-os, was'nt itl Say! don't 
you think so 1 — perfect despera-a-ado — great pity, 'pon my honor ! — wonderfully inventive age ! — 
pro-o-odigies of valor ! By the by, did you ever hear about Captain Manni" 

" Captain Mann be d d !" said I, " please to go on with your story." 

" Hem ! — oh well ! — toute la mcme cko-o-ose, as we say in France. Smith, eh 1 Brigadier 
General John A — B — C? I say — (here Mr. S- thought proper to put his finger to the side of 
his nose) — I say, you don't mean to insinuate now, really, and truly, and conscientiously, that you 
don't know all about that affair of Smith's as well as I do, eh ? Smith 1 John A — B — C.l Why^ 
bless me, he's the ma-a-an" 

" Mr. Sinivate," said I, imploringly, " is he the man in the mask ?" 

" No-o-o !" said he, looking wise, " nor the man in the mo-oo-on." 

This reply I considered a pointed and positive insult, and I left the house at once in high dudgeon, 
with a firm resolve to call my friend, Mr. Sinivate, to a speedy account for his ungentlemanly con- 
duct and ill breeding. 

In the meantime, however, I had no notion of being thwaried touching the information I desired. 
There was one resource left me yet. I would go to the fountain head. I would call forthwith upon 
the General himself, and demand, in explicit terms, a solution of this abominable piece of mystery.- 

Here at least there should be no chance for equivocation. I would be plain, positive, peremptory 

as short as pie-crust — as concise as Tacitus or Montesquieu. 

It was early when I called, and the General was dressing ; but I pleaded urgent business, and was 
shown at once into his bed-room by an old negro valet, who remained in attendance during my visit. 
As I entered the chamber, I looked about, of course, for the occupant, but did not immediately per- 
ceive him. There was a large and exceedingly odd-looking bundle of something which lay close 
by my feet, on the floor, and, as I was not in the best humor in the world, I gave it a kick out of 
the way. 

" Hem ! ahem ! rather civil that, I should say !" said the bundle, in one of the smallest, the 
weakest, and altogether the funniest little voices, between a squeak and a whistle, that ever I heard 
in all the days of my existence. 

" Ahem ! rather civil that, I should observe !" 1 fairly shouted with terror, and made off at 3- 

tangent, into the farthest extremity of the room. 

" God bless me, my dear fellox," here again whistled the bundle, " what — what — what — why 
what is the matter "? I really believe you don't know me at all." 

" No — no — 710.'" said I, getting as close to the wall as possible, and holding up both hands irj 
the way of expostulation ; " don't know you — know you — know you — don't know you at all I 
Where's your master ]" here I gave an impatient squint towards the negro, still keeping a tight- 
eye upon the bundle. 

" He ! he ! he ! he-aw ! he-aw ! he-aw !" cachinnated that delectable specimen of the human 
family, with his mouth fairly extended from ear to ear, and with his forefinger held up close to his 
face, and levelled at the object of my apprehension, as if he was taking aim at it with a pistol. 

"He! he! he! he-aw! he-aw! he-aw! — what, you want Mass Smif! Why, dar's him !" 

What could I say to all this — what could IV I staggered into an arm-chair, and, with staring: 
eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder. 

" Strange you shouldn't know me though, isn't it 1" presently re-squeaked the bundle, which I 
now perceived was performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the 
drawing on of a stocking. There was only a single leg, however, apparent. 

" Strange you shouldn't know me, though, isn't it 1 Pompey, bring me that leg !" Here Pom-- 
pey handed the bundle a very capital cork leg, all ready dressed, which it screwed on in a trice, and 
then it stood upright before my eyes. Devil the word could I sa3\ 

" And a bloody action it ivas," continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy ; " but then one musn't 
fight with the Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch. Pompey, 
I'll thank you now for that arm. Thomas (turning to me) is decidedly the best hand at a cork leg ; 
he lives in Eace street, No. 79 — stop, I'll give you his card ; but if you should ever want an arm, 
my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you to Bishop." Here Pompey screwed on an 

" We had rather hot work of it, that you may say. Now, you dog, slip on my shoulders and 
bosom — Pettitt makes the best shoulders, but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow." 

" Bosom !" said I. 

" Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig 1 Scalping is a rough process after all; but 
then you can procure such a capital scratch at De L'Orme's." 

" Scratch !" 

" Now, you nigger, my teeth ! For a good set of these you had better go to Parmly's at once 


high prices, but excellent work. I swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big Bug- 
aboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle." 

" Butt end ! — ram down ! — my eye !" 

" O yes, by the by, my eye — here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in ! Those Kickapoos are not 
so very slow at a gouge — but he's a belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all ; you can't imagine how 
well I see with the eyes of his make." 

I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me was nothing more or less than my 
new acquaintance, Brevet Brigadiei General John A. B. C. Smith. The manipulations of Pompey 
had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the appearance of the personal man. The 
voice, however, still puzzled me no little ; but even this apparent mystery was speedily cleared up. 

" Pompey, you black rascal,'' squeaked the General, " I really do believe you would let me go out 
without my palate." 

Hereupon the negro, giumbling out an apology, went up to his master, opened his mouth with 
the knowing air of a horse jockey, and adjusted therein a somewhat singular looking machine, in a 
very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend. The alteration, however, in the 
whole expression of the countenance of the General was instantaneous and surprising. When he 
agam spoke, his voice had resumed the whole of that rich melody and strength which I had noticed 
upon our original introduction. 

" D — n the vagabonds !" said he, in so clear a tone that I positively started at the change, " d — n 
the vagabonds ! they not only knocked in the roof of my mouth, but took the trouble to cut off at 
least seven-eighths of my tongue. There isn't Bonfanti's equal, howevei, in America, for really 
good articles of this description. I can recommend you to him with confidence, (here the General 
bowed,) and assure you that I have the greatest pleasure in so doing." 

I acknowledged this kindness in my best manner, and now took leave of my friend at once, with 
a perfect understanding of the state of affairs — with a full comprehension of the mystery which had 
troubled me so long. It was evident. It was a clear case. Brevet Brigadier General John A. B > 
C. Smith was the man was 



The Fairyland of our correspondent is not ortliodox. His description differs from all rtceived accounts of tlie 
country— but our readers will pardon the extravagance for the vigor of the delineation. 

Dim vales — and shadowy floods — 
And cloudy-looking woods. 
Whose forms we can't discover 
For the tears that diip all over. 
Huge moons there wax and wane — 
A gain — ag ain — again — 
Ev'ry moment of the night- 
Forever changing places — 
And they put out the star-light 
With the breath from their pale faces ; 
About twelve by the moon-dial 
One, vaore filmy than the rest 
(A sort which, upon trial, 
They have found to be the best) 
Comes down — still down — and down 
With its centre on the crown 
Of a mountain's eminence, 
While its wide circumference 
In easy drapery falls 
Over hamlets, and rich halls. 
Wherever they may be — 
O'er the strange woods — o'er the sea — 
Over spirits on the wing — 

Over every drowsy thing — 

And buries them up quite 

In a labyrinth of light — 

And then, how deep ! O ! deep ! 

Is the passion of iheii sleep ! 

In the morning they arise, , 

And their moony covering 

Is soaring in the skies, 

With the tempests as they toss, 

Like almost any thing — 

Or a yellow Albatross. 
They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before — 
Videlicet a tent — 
Which I think extravagant: 
Its atomies, however, 
Into a shower dissever, 
Of which those butterflies 
Of Earth, who seek the skies, 
And so come down again, 
(The unbeheving things !) 
Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quivering wings. 



[Continued from page 41.] 



Forget it, oh forget the sound 
That had such fatal ])Owcr to wound ! 
It was not meant to deeply dwell 
With such a dark and witlieringspell ; 
It was not meant to give a pain 
'Iliat kind tones could not heal again. 
A hasty word will sometimes start 
From out an overburdened heart. 
That tears, however fast they fall, 
Can ne'er again its sound recall ; 
And time, as still it onward rolls, 
Divides yet irore the once knit souls, 
Until the heart is o!ily stirred 
With memory of a hasty word. 

Miss C. H. IVaferman. 

For some moments the cousins were silent. To a third person it would have appeared quite a 
cene. The young De Berrian stood gloomily apart. He was a boy in years, but under a somewhat 
saddened demeanor, indicating a maturity of thought beyond his age — he hid the fire and haughti- 
ness of a high-born southron. It is no comfortable thing — a flat rejection — for there is no humilia- 
tion so resourceless as that of personal vanit_y. Pride humbled has its balm in the " soul" — but 
wounded vanity, like a butterfly beaten down in a shower, only soils its wings the more when it 
tries to fly. 

Catharine looked as smiling as a Hebe, for at first she wickedly enjoyed her lovers chagrin ; yet 
she felt for him ; her own pride, and she had a plenty, vs'hispered the scorn of a refusal. She would 
not have forgiven another of her sex who had rejected her noble cousin. Ah ! the archer's feathered 
messenger of sighs was on the air, and the aim was fatal. Her splendid eye languished behind their 
lashes strung with stealing tears. The roses, while and red, were vanquished by turns upon her 
cheeks, and her frame thrilled with the luxury of maiden fear as she thought " how delightful it will 
be to chase away his frowns ! Fll smile my sweetest, for oh ! this must be love !" Alas that our best 
resolves are often a moment too late ! There is a fatality in every passing minute, and the traveller 
often hurries to the shore but in time to see his bark adrift. 

Catharine did smile her sweetest, for her look was the tender charity of an angel. " Tell me, 
Knight of the Rueful Visage," she asked in tones of heavenly consolation, " why standest thou here 
forlorn? Hast basely left the college tilt and tournament for the bower of thy lady-lovel " 

<' I am happy, exceedingly so, that I have something gratifying to tell you," answered Walter, 
with a bitter expression of pleasure — " I am expelled." 

" Expelled ! Walter De Berrian expelled! for whatl my dearest cousin," cried she feelingly, as 
she took his burning hand, and looked with tears into his face, 

" For fighting a duel," was the stern and measured reply. 

The vision that paled before him haunted De Berrian for years through the moan of the sea and 
the stillness of the night-watch. Slowly her white hands pressed away from her ashy face the ring- 
lets that would have hid its anger. She drew herself up, and scanned the astonished youth as if 
meditating whether he were worthy a curse. He would have given worlds to have recalled his 
reckless speech, for the withering gaze of the imperious and indignant Catharine was freezing his 
young heart. 

" And you have dared," she spoke at length in wildest scorn, " to lay at my feet the insulting 
love of a duellist ; you would lead me to the holy altar with a hand of blood — wreathe the brow of 
Catharine Harmair with bridal flowers that hide a murderer's steel ! Leave me sir, forever." 

72 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

The first soft pencilling of the rising moon fell upon her face, before so beautiful in its coquettish 
play ; but now it was pale and stark as of one who has met the shaft of death in the utterance of a 
curse. She turned away with a gesture of eternal parting, and desolation fell upon her unhappy 
cousin as when the leaves of the almond faint at the sweep of the desert's breath. Nothing in feel- 
ing is so intensely miserable as the shrinking wretchedness of the young heart before the gloom of 
a hopeless future. Starting distractedly, as a mourner denied at the prison gate, the young man 
caught his stately cousin by the arm, and wildly implored her thus — 

" Hear me but a moment, unjust Catharine, for, by Heaven, I go as you bid me. When your 
brother and mine was taken away, you bowed to the woe of blighted promise — the misery of cheer- 
less loveliness — oh ! by that remembrance I plead a moment's hearing ; for the grass is long on my 
mother's grave, who loved you no less than me — I am alone ; for your curse — yes yours — is yet 
ringing on this air. Why is love — devotion — a crime 1 Why am I, who never breathed your name 
but as a votary at his shrine, spurned with words too damning for the doom of a fiend ] It is hard 
when our feelings, our weaknesses, are slighted by the indifferent ; but when our dearest hopes are 
scorned by those we love, it is more bitter than a dishonored grave — Catharine, my cousin and play- 
mate, forgive me, for I go forever." 

" Go, and never again may my eyes light on one of that hated class that murdered my brother." 
" Yet that brother was a duellist." 

"Leave me, leave me, never speak to me again !" she wildly shrieked. 

" Never," slowly repeated De Berrian, folding his arms, more in sorrow than in anger, at the dan- 
gerous perversity of his adored cousin. She deigned not a look, but moved haughtily off; and then 
the fiery pride of his nature flashed in Walter's stem deey) eye, and the blood of a lofty soul that 
scorns to clear up a causeless wrong, hurried and tingled in his cheek. 

" Your lesson is bitter but well taught. Miss Harman. I can be as proud and unbending as you, 
for the Harman blood runs here in a heart as easUy taught to hate as your own. Yet my hands are 
stainless. It was my glory to love you honorably. You have conquered, but never triumphed ; for 
Brutus goes not bound to Kome. I am young," continued De Berrian, in the fulness of his injury, 
" and the world was beautiful before me. I felt within a soul of honor and love, and woman was my 
idol. Give me affection and happiaess,! said, and fame will haunt me not; for even in ambition's 
wildest flight there are pauses when the fairest theme of fancy's muse is a cottage and a wife. Of- 
ten when I have seen two trusting hearts twining together in the delicious confidence of wedded 
bliss, where fond eyes read each other's longing, and warm lips met to print it in a blush, I have 
said with the rapture of untried hope, ' I too will one day be like one of these.' I could have lived 
and died a gentleman and a benefactor, but that dream is past, and the hand of Catharine has lifted 
the veil." 

No answer was made. Not a softening look or swimming tear told the youth that he was for- 
given. In lofty silence the cousins threaded the moonlit grove, and walked towards the house, their 
tall shadows falling before them as dark as the future to each. 

The gouty old papa was in the most forbidding temper. He had seated himself with a pipe in the 
piazza, and his ailing foot, redolent of camphor and penniroyal, and flaming in regimentals of flan- 
nel, was cushioned on a high-backed chair. The. soft odor of the many flowers that Catharine had 
taught to twine along the railing and pillars stole sweet around with dew and moonlight, and 
soothed the martyr to gentility in spite of his gout. He was in a fair way to pass an hour without 
an oath, and wanted but a kiss from his daughter to be perfectly etherealized. The veteran was a 
famous hunter of foxes, and kept a community of hounds. He was, too, a lover of cats — a thing 
unusual with his sex, and singularly startling considering his antipathy to virgins of the old school. 
Now cats and hounds are mortal foes ; with them every look is a national reflection ; they are sparring 
day and night, not unlike a maiden aunt and a romantic miss when a lover is in question. Sudden- 
ly, an animated bark and a furious rustle in the shrubbery, nearly jerked the old gentleman from a 
sleepy obtuse to a stark right angle. It was the opening of his favorite hound, who, in a moment, 
was wheeling and dodging in full cry. The old hunter felt himself bounding over hedge and ditch, 
neck or nothing, on a clear frosty morning. Smacking his pipe by way of a horsewhip, he clapped 
his hand to his mouth and rung a lusty whoop, when his favorite cat, with his favorite hound in 
full chase in her wake, doubled the corner handsomely, and bore down the piazza under every rag 
of canvas. The fleet Grimalkin, being of clean run and lighter draught, hauled her courses, and 
made harbor under the chair that supported the rebellious limb. Instantly her long pennant was 
run up, and she opened a broadside of fire at the enemy beyond the chevaux-de-fris e. The defiance 
was mutual, and, in the desperate cutting out, the chair was capsized, and the unlucky foot fell by 
the board in the hottest of the fight. The fierce Grimalkin, like some brimstone pirate with whom 
every strange sail is an enemy, threw her grapnels aboard the helpless prize, and a furious melee for 
possession ensued. Snaps, squalls, and clapper-clawings, in the earnest interchange of feline and 
canine courtesy, were showered on the fated foot — a lesson to all mediators. The old gentleman 
howled and swore tremendously, for he never did either by halves, and the staggered belligerents 
threw national honor to the devil, and made hasty sail with colors struck. By this time, the silent 
cousins were coming slowly up the walk. Seeing a stranger with his daughter, the wrathy old 


gentleman swore less, and rounded off his last period as they approached. Catharine retreated 
without a word into the house, and Walter made himself known to his uncle. Neither was in the 
sweetest humor, and the interview was the essence of formality. 

" You return somewhat unexpectedly," hemmed the uncle, with a grim glance at his bedraggled 

" I have left college," responded the nephew with a bow that would have done honor to an am- 

" Left sir ! Left — when you were to graduate in a few months ! I don't remember that you con- 
sulted me on the occasion" — and the uncle put an arm akimbo, and thrust his lips together till they 
might have been mistaken for a piece of putty that had accidentally fallen on a gravel walk. 

"Nor I, sir — the formality of your advice was dispensed with. I am expelled," was the courteous 

" Expelled ! hillo !" sung out the uncle, grabbing at his crutch. " How dare you sir ? hey — 
what for, sir V 

" When you question me in a more gentlemanly manner I will answer. Pray keep your tem- 
per — it will aggravate your pain. I regret that I so rashly communicated the distressing intelli- 
gence ; you are not equal to it," advised the affectionate nephew, as his uncle almost jumped out of 
his seat. 

" High times, by Jupiter — you penniless dog ! — ^jawed in my own house 1 what am I coming to?" 
thundered the old gentleman, stamping the wrong foot in his rage. 

" Penniless dog !" shouted De Berrian, as a terrible frown gathered on his blackened brow, " ha ! 
then this is the secret of my kind reception elsewheie," glancing at the agitated Catharine, who had 
hurried to the door. He stood erect and haughty before his astonished guardian. " When, sir, my 
dying mother gave her orphan son to her only brother's care, her pure soul was happy in its flight, 
for your tears bespoke protection. I thank God she witnesses not this humiliation. Farewell for- 

The young man wheeled away fiom his stupified uncle with a burning brain. As he neared the 
shrubbery, Catharine stretched her arms imploringly towards him, and hoarsely sobbed his name. 
The recall was never heard, and she pressed her hands upon her bursting forehead in a fearful strug- 
gle of pride and i egret; her long magnificent hair fell darkly on her cheeks, and hot tears trickled 
fast between her tapering fingers. 

Walter stood by the tree where, an hour before, in the dream of hope and thrill of love, he met 
his beautiful cousin after an absence of years. Her fawns came skipping to meet him, and fled 
frightened at their mistake. De Berrian bitterly laughed, and strode to the bank of the bay. The 
sails of the distant ship loomed bright in the moonshine like a tall bank of floating snow. A large 
flag, which arose and fell with a caressing breeze, appearing and vanishing as a thing of air, seemed 
to call him on. The ship was tacking towards him, and springing suddenly into a frail batteau, he 
plied the oars with a muscular arm. Soon his white and beautiful home, the grassy-green play- 
ground of his boyhood, the shore, the cliffs, and every well-remembered spot, were blended, softened, 
lost in the broad wake of the moon, rippling iir a thousand smiles at the wooing of the gentle gale. 
A gruff voice hailed De Berrian from the bov? of the ship, and shooting his boat alongside, he 
climbed actively over the gangway. And that gifted youth — that orphan boy — in one short hour 
was robbed of all of life except its bitterness ? 

The next evening was gay and lovely as May and light hearts could make it. The birth-night 
ball was a brilliant affair. The lighted and embowered promenades, the garden, pavillions of vines 
and roses, the piazzas, halls and saloons of the Harman mansion were echoing to music and revelry. 
Youth and beauty were teeming there in all their freshness and witchery, and the queenly and ac- 
complished Catharine was the star of every eye. She played and sung, and the lips of beauty 
hushed their ravishing converse to hear the melody of a Seraph. She flashed in the witty tete-a-tete, 
and tongues were silent before her that elsewhere dropped the brightest gems of thought. And when 
she moved in the magic elegance of the dance, airy and graceful as one of those exquisite shapes 
that float in a half-remembered dream, every eye worshiped her, and not a heart around but sighed 
when the music ceased. 

Catharine Harman stood before her mirror that night, and a lovely female friend unfastened the 
jewels in her superb hair, which the restless beauty tossed and flung in splendid negligence. That 
evening had been one of intoxicating triumph, and Catharine seemed in the highest spirits. Yet 
there was a wildness in hei gayety, an unnatural thrill in her frequent laugh that startled herself. 
The eye was too rapid and unearthly in its brilliancy ; the cheek too flushed, or, rather, the whole 
face wore that deep scarlet tint that tells of feverish excitement. How strange that the breaking 
heart should mock itself by the counterfeit of spirits ! The wild and bounding stream hurries only 
to exhaust itself — though the sunlight plays on the summer cloud, there is trouble in its bosom, and 
a shadow behind. 

The lovely friends had laughed long and gayly over the incidents of the ball. They had nearly 
finished their graceful task of disrobing ornaments from beauty that needed not their help, when 
Catharine abruptly asked — 

74 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

" Do you know, Isabel, the secret of a woman's power over these boasting lords of creation'?" 

"I must ask you," she answered, " experience teaches well." 

" Not another compliment to-night, sweet innocence. Their lightness has already etherealized your 
unambitious Kate — but yes, I will take yours up on second thought ; for, coming from one of the 
sex, sure it is a priceless curiosity." 

" Then be generous as I, and give me the secret." 

"If you promise not to rival me, dearest," said the winning Catharine, softly pressing a hand on 
each cheek of Isabel, and kissing a pair of Ups almost as tempting as her own. " Like the strength 
of Sampson, the spell of a woman's enchantment lies in her hair, her rich, curling, magnificent hair. 
What are your swimming eyes, without their moleskin brows and camel's hair lashes "? Just ima- 
gine what the bewitching face and elegant head of yours would look like, were it shorn of its sunny 
dress of ringlets ! Ah ! Isabel, this is Cupid's own ambush, and see here !" she added, flinging the 
long, dancing curls over her friend's white and beautiful bosom, and turning her to the mirror, 
" there is nature's most lovely sight, beauty unadorned. Oh ! if our husbands could not love us for 
ourselves, then indeed is love a phantom." 

"Indeed, Catharine," laughed the amused and flattered Isabel, " beside affording a fatal ambush to 
the puissant boy-god, I think too that female hair furnishes him with his vaunted silken chains. M'^hen 
we were sweet, friendship-swearing sixteen, I think I saw such a chain on the wrist of your bashful 
cousin — when will he be home again 1" 

It was well that her unbound tresses shaded the instant paleness of her countenance, else Catha- 
rine had betrayed the intense emotion the question elicited. " I thought he might have been here 
to-night," she answered in a quivering tone. 

An hour after, when nothing was heard but the gentle breathing of the sleeping Isabel, Catharine 
had stolen from her arms, and mingled her tears with the dew of the flowers that hung heavy with 
their sweet burden in the windows. Long and bitter was that reverie. The crowded incidents and 
giddy eclat of the past day had shut out reflection, or rather she had sought their excitement through 
dread of thought. But in that still hour when the moon taught gentleness, and the stars led memory 
home, she thought of her wronged cousin. It was the hour when the heart owns its truth. Truth, 
Uke echo, dwells in solitude, startling with her floating whisper the burdened soul that seeks her 
communion. He was gone forever! "Will he comeback"? will he forgive me?" she almost 
shrieked — " O I will pray the stars for tears — the dove for her imploring glance to plead a pardon ; 
and then he is lord of this heart forever. He said he loved me! Ijove! mysterious power. I 
knew thee not before." She ceased, for the moon was sinking under the dusky line of the far-off 
shore ; her shadow fell like a long still pillar of light across the sleeping bay, and then all was dark, 
still, and mystic. 

One who trifles with affection is like the too envious seer who peers over the cavern's brink, hold- 
ing only a slendor switch. Love is the frail and beautiful flower reared in a lady's boudoir. Ten- 
der as the hand that caresses its leaves, it blooms the type of its lovely priestess. Sighs are its dew 
and its summer wind. A flower so fleeting, yet O ! so exquisitely prized, perishes at the out-door 



It was an autumnal mom in 1812, and the domes, towers and steeples of the monumental city 
loomed bright and glancing above a sea of vapor, like distant ships becalmed. Here and there groups 
of roofs and chimneys, frowning with smoke, and port-like windows were anchored, like floating bat- 
teries, on the white expanse. The fire-wand of the magician Sun touched the heavy canopy ; it 
folded grandly up, and the city stood awake. A rambling noise of far off wheels and bells gathered 
depth and distinctness till the eternal roar of the crowded mart floated on the chilly morning air. — 
Yet it was not all the bustle of trade. The shrill music of the pipe, and the rolling tones of the 
drum lent an echo to the passing aii. Hundreds of flags were hanging around and afar, from the 
heights and shipping ; but they were not the peaceful telegraphs of commerce, for when the buoy- 
ant breeze unfurled their blazoned folds the banner of stars and stripes was proudly flung alee. 

War had been declared between Great Britain and America. A billow of that tremendous storm 
that had lashed Europe into foam, had strayed across the Atlantic, and drowned the lights of peace 
along the coast. The spirit of a brave people had risen from vain fury at unprovoked aggression to 
a noble consciousness of equality, A chivalric eagerness for the contest at once pervaded all classes 
of the people ; for already the iron thunder of the Constitution had rolled across the deep to tell the 
proud court of St, James that a rival star was shining on the sea. 

"business was at a stand, yet every body was busy ; thousands of citizens were thronging the streets. 


Behind the ample flags that flaunted over them, the distant observer might note the soUd ranks and 
even tramp of the military. The port was alive with boats passing and hailing. A few bay-craft 
were standing up, which were boarded by the curious and idle, who for once were determined to be 
astir for the good of the country. Every arrival seemed freighted with the destiny of the nation, and 
a large crowd, hungry for news, stood upon the wharves. Now and then a burst of artillery was 
heard, which called forth vast shouting and vociferous patriotism. The, splendid and unexpected 
victory of the Constitution had elated a people " unused to conquest and'tocertain of their own 
powers." Every soul was ready to fight — no matter what — the devil, or any thing in general — yet 
all had an especial hankering to cuff" the stout corporation of old John Bull on his vaunted ocean 
home. Nor was this " all talk and no cider," for they of the monumental city have gathered laurels 
on hard-won fields, and their fleet cruisers, in distant seas, have overhauled and downhauled many 
a flag of the enemy. The brave will ever honor and reward valor, else whence that proud title " Mo- 
numental 1 " 

A short distance from the wharf, at the lower part of the city, lay a small half-brig, half-schooner- 
looking craft, which at a glance fastened attention by the surpassing beauty of her model. She was 
of that peculiar and singularly elegant class well known in American ports as an hermaphrodite 
brig. Her masts were tall and wand-like, with narrow shrouds, and a beautiful rake ; her white 
tapering spars were bright and clean, and her rigging throughout was in tasteful and elegant style. 
She sat long and low in the water, and swung with the breeze as gay and Ught as a floating plume. 
A single white streak of paint, clear and even as if cut out of pearl, swept, with a scarcely percepti- 
ble curve, along the dark leaden hull, and a small snowy sea-gull, with crouched neck and half ex- 
tended wings, seemed readyto fly from the ornamented bow. There was a flourish of golden sea- 
grass on her handsome stern, which was almost brushed by the long stripes of the United States' 
flag as it flaunted over the taffrail. Four port holes on each side revealed the black mouths of as 
many cannon ; a long eighteen pounder was poised upon a pivot abaft the foremast, and two ports 
for stern chasers opened on each side of the wheel. A pilot signal was flying at the fore. 

The appearance of the vessel was that of a privateer, and the bustle and hurrah of recruiting disci- 
pline which a seaman's eye quickly detects, attached her at once to that daring and somewhat equi- 
vocal class. Her officers were brave and skillful, and she was manned by a choice crew of nearly 
one hundred men, whom patriotism, oj the more seductive spirit of gain, had drawn together. 

Privateering has been quaintly called " a school of piracy," and probably with some truth ; but it 
is no prejudice to say that American privateers in the late American war are a noble exception. The 
navy was small as it was gallant, and private armed vessels might rather have been regarded sharers 
of the national defence than speculating plunderers. It is well known that they paid their respects 
to all vessels of the enemy, making no invidious distinction between armed and unarmed. Many 
gallant men played at that biilliant game from the purest national feeling ; and what American, 
when reading the history of their daring victories in the last war, would withhold the meed of ap- 
plause and gratitude 1 

But now there was a sudden stir on board the Sea-Gull. The boatswain's whistle split the air, 
and the loud " all hands up anchor," startled a gallant airay of blue jackets to their duty. The nu- 
merous boats that had crowded around the brig put off, and cloud after cloud of clean new canvas 
boomed gladly in the gale. With a graceful careen to leeward, she glided like magic away. The 
drum and fife struck up a stirring march, and a long and thrilling shout burst from the admiring 
crowd on the wharves. She clipped it beautifully past the fort, her happy flag waving recognition to 
the large ensign that presided frowningly over the batteries. Another shout — a whiff" of smoke from 
the deck — a single gun — and the Sea-Gull was away on the wave. 

[To be eominued.] 

T O 

Fair maiden, let thy generous heart I So with the world thy gentle ways, 

From its present pathway part not— ! Thy unassuming beauty, 

Being every thing which now thou art, | Thy truth— shall be a theme of praise 

Be nothing which thou art not. j Forever, and love a duty. 



A FEW years ago, I resided for a short time, during the summer months, in the little village of 
P******, the borough-town of one of the central counties of that unpretending state, to which the 
name of Irving's sleeping hero is now most usually applied. It was a retired place. There was 
little of the stateliness and pride, the gloss and tinsel show of more frequented spots. The surround- 
ing country could boast no grand imposing views, yet the scenery was indeed lovely and picturesque. 
It heeded the murmuring music of no Tivoli to give it interest, the blaze of no ^tna to lend a richer 
or more glowing tint to its skies. The prospect was one the eye delights to dwell upon. No ap- 
pearance of the elaborate efforts of Art was visible, but all was clothed in the sweet simplicity of 
Nature's garb. To a mind such as mine, the quiet seclusion of the neighboring groves, vested in their 
own thick foliage, was always inviting. I was one the world might suppose habitually gay, yet was 
it otherwise. At times dark and burning thoughts crowded through my aching brain. I withdrew 
from the society of my fellow man, and rejected with embittered heart his proffered sympathy. Then 
did I love to wander forth alone, to breathe the free air of the hills, crowded with verdure ; to listen 
to the rich melody of the feathered warblers, for they could soothe my gloomy feelings and divert 
from their rough channel my fevered thoughts. Among the many retreats of my melancholy, there 
was one peculiarly a favorite, but a short stroll from my dwelling. It was the humble cottage of a 
faithful servant, who had numbered more than a century of years ; now sheltered in his decaying age 
by the affectionate giatitude of his master's only representative. Him, when a boy, he had often 
fondled on his knee and breathed for his welfare his simple prayer, with that purity and intensity of 
feeling that came from the heart. There was a wildness about his home that made it deeply in- 
teresting and romantic. Around his little dwelling, constuicted comfortably yet without reference 
to taste, the luxuriant grass spread its tapestried freshness, and three or four giant oaks, veterans as 
himself, over its moss-covered roof had interwoven their branches, as if with solicitude to guard him 
from the heat of a southern sun. A few paces in the rear, embedded in a thicket of plum trees, was 
a modest grave, scarcely now to be distinguished. Above it the yellow jessamine hung in graceful 
festoons, filling the air with its exquisite fragrance, while the white rose, sweet-briar, and honeysuckle, 
clustered in loveliness, appeared here and there through the interstices of the shrubbery, as if to tempt 
the heedless stranger to the perilous adventure of reaching them. Such was his choice for the re- 
treat of his declining years, near the mouldering remains of a master whom he ever tenderly re- 
membered, and expected to join in a happier world with the mild piety of the christian's hope. For 
the last twenty years of his life he had seldom passed the immediate limits of his little farm. His 
wants, which were few, were weekly supplied from the village by the filial attention of a grandson, 
who had now attained the age of manhood, and his store of luxuries increased by contributions of 
his favorite weed from visiters, and the small presents I found it in my power occasionally to supply. 
In the worn outlines of a form attenuated and bent by the ravages of time might be detected the 
vestiges of a once athletic and vigorous frame. The presence of some he scarcely noticed, but me 
he always met with the smile of younger days. He was one of the few remaining links connecting 
the present and the olden time. Seated by his side, I have often listened with eager joy and throb- 
bing heart to his many stories. He would seek to beguile my visits with all the wonted garrulity of 
old age — tell me of our fathers — paint the scene in which they moved in the strong color of 
truth. There in {he distance, where the country court-house once stood, he would point out the 
spot where the haughty Briton dared to plant his tent on freedom's soil; — where his own cottage 
rose, encamped the patriot force. With kindling eye, he would trace the hasty retreat — the spirited 
pursuit, and the well-contested though unequal fight of the allies — the startling danger of a too gal- 
lant master, and his own successful efforts to rescue him, while the tear of remembered triumph stole 
down his furrowed cheek. Much to my regret, parental commands soon called me away. I visited 
before leaving, for the last time, my old friend. He bade me farewell with touching earnestness — he 
said we would never meet again, and I felt, as feelings of sorrow stole over me, that his words were 
true. I left him with a kind adieu and small gift. iTven now his last words, " God bless you, master," 
seem to ring in my ear. Three years afterwards, I returned to the same little town, and soon was 
on my way to my favorite haunt. The little path I had so often trodden was overgrown with rank 
weeds — where once stood his house was a mournful pile of rubbish. But, by the grave I had often 
visited, one of more recent date told the story of his end— old Richard was no more. May the turf 
rest lightly upon him ! Peace be to his ashes ! 




The busy world was still. The solemn moon 
Smiled forth her silvery beauty ; and the stars, 
Like living diamonds on a sea of glass, 
Danced in the sapphire canopy of heaven : 
Night, robed in the rich Autumn's mellowness. 
Kept pace with the deep slumber of the world. 
And fell upon the waters aird the fields 
With the full majesty of silence ! Dreams 
Now came upon my slumbers ; and methought 
Of the grand enterprise with which a world. 
Boundless — limitless as the far stretch of thought, 
Was by creative Deity wrought up 
And fashioned into being. How the mind, 
(That vivifying principle wliich spurns 
The trammels which have bound the body up 
In the deep silentness of sleep,) will leap 
Through the dim vista of ethereal spheres. 
And draw such portraiture of things, they seem 
The very shadows of reality ! 
Thus were my dreams the faithful limners of 
All that is bright and beautiful in this 
Luxuriant world which is. 

And thus, methought. 
The chronicled events of times gone by 
Rolled past me in their gorgeousness of glory. 
The world was then unbuilt: Chaos was there — 
Dressed in our twilight's dappled mantle : God 
The ever-pure, the ever-glorious God — 
The ever-living, self-existent God — 
Throned in the bosom of immensity, 
Held all secure the eternal destinies 
Of worlds unborn ; and he alone filled up. 
With his infinitude of perfectness. 
The whole of animate existence, which 
Had else been but a blank. Full of the fire 
Which mortals here call purity, whence love 
Springs like a spark of glory in the heart, 
This great, high God, conceived the grand design 
Of building worlds and peopling them with men. 
The image of himself, whose " end and aim. 
And ultimatum" were the joyous land 
Which he himself inhabiteth — where Love, 
In-dweller of that happy land, abides. 
To fill each heart with bliss and full delight ! 
Methought old chaos smiled when passed abroad 
The mandate from God's holy sanctuary ! 
Oh ! what a flash of glory then burst forth ! 
Then, all at once, and out of nothing, came 
World after world, and moving onward still. 
Each, with the fitness of design perceptive. 
Into its or\ rolled. Light flashed abroad. 
And then the hl^h-arched firmament was spread, 
(A gorgeous canopy whose jewelled top 
Only the infinite could e'ev conceive,) 
XiVe a rich banner flashing golden beams. 

Clouds, sporting in the depths of living space, 
Blushed with the rosy tints of dazzling light. 
And hung like drapery round a bridal couch 
Which mortals revel on in orient climes. 
Earth, and the thousand beauteous worlds that 

Each in the place by God's appointment given, 
Were by the great Designer now reviewed. 
I saw God's eye, and quailed beneath the blaze 
Of never-dying glory that shone forth ! 
I heard his voice, and echo bore the sound 
To heaven's remotest limit ; and the words 
Were written on the great white throne of God, 
In lines of fire, — " The work is tert good !" 

A change came o'er my dream. Mankind had 

Their Uttle hour upon the stage of time, 
Had had their griefs and joys, their loves and fears, 
And now were mouldering in their silent cells 
Where thought was chained in dumb forgetfulness. 
Before me was the future — what a book 
For man to contemplate ! upon its lids 
I saw the marks where curious hands in vain 
Essayed to tear the fetters which bound up 
From human ken that page of beauteous die — 
All but one glorious leaf that had contained 
The rules which erst were given to man, writ 

By inspiration in the Book of Truth ! 
Now, one by one, the seals were all unloosed, 
And full before me was the volume spread, — 
The Future was revealed ! 

Oh ! glorious sight ! 
Too fair indeed for view of mortal man, 
Except in visions of the silent night. 
There was the throne of God — from out its base 
Flowed the pure river of eternal life. 
Which shone like crystal burnished o'er with fire ; 
And from whose flowery banks, on either side. 
Nodded that tree whose verdant branches bore 
Twelve kinds of fruit which ripen every month. 
The voice of Deity went forth, and, lo ! 
The trump resounded and the dead arose — 
And they, and all that dwelt upon the earth, 
In the quick twinkling of an eye were changed ! 
Oh, how each heart rejoiced I Each face now 

With that rich glow which burns for ever bright, 
(For each was now " immortal as his sire,") 
And full of smiles, and love, and pure dehght. 
Millions on millions of that glorious band. 
Sent forth a shout which shook the throne of God, 
And as its echo rung through boundless space — 
My sleep was broken, and the vision gone ! 




It is a hot morning, and we have been strolling in Chestnut street to refresh our fancy with the 
various female wonders of Nature and Art, with which every great city abounds. We have not, it 
must be confessed, been very successful in our search, for Chestnut street we find is losing very de- 
cidedly the character for high fashion which it once enjoyed, and Walnut street is beginning to 
usurp its best glories. There is no place in the world where fashion (we allude to the selectest) is 
so sensitive, or capricious, as in Philadelphia : the moment that a place is so attractive or so well 
known that " every body" is supposed capable of going there, and the frequenting of it ceases to be 
a distinction, that instant it is pronounced vulgar, and people of ton fly from it with horror. In con- 
sequence of this foolish fastidiousness the most agreeable places in this city, (as Washington square,) 
are entirely in the hands of second or third rate persons. Our Chestnut street walk has therefore 
brought us little but a red-hot face and pair of dusty boots. Now the only cool place in Philadelphia, 
when the weather is hot, is the Academy of Fine Arts ; we will, therefore, drop in there for a few 
moments, to regain our due personal solidity, and amuse our sight by turning from painted faces to 
painted canvas. 

When we recover from the astonishment produced by the appearance of an enormous pile of 
plaster in the centre of the outer room which seems placed there for no other purpose than to pre- 
vent a single picture from being seen at the proper distance, and to injure the sight in judging of 
colors, the first thing that engages our attention is Alston's huge painting of the dead man restored 
to life, by touching the corpse of Elisha, (catalogue No. 46.) The painter is what the cant of the 
times denominates " a native artist," and it is therefore a high offence against patriotism, honor, 
good feeling, and the seven cardinal virtues in a lump, to bestow on the performance any thing else 
than " honied words of praise." Phew ! The delineator of such a monstrossity aught to be rolled 
up in his canvas, and both of them burnt together on the altar of beauty. 

The taste which selected this subject for the pencil was unacquainted with that strict boundary 
line within which the graces have encircled this art. Pleasure is the sole end of painting; beauty 
is the sole source of unqualified pleasure : beauty then is the supreme law of this, and all the other, 
arts of design. The Greeks I take to be the despotic law-givers for the world in all that concerns 
art : they painted, not to display their skill or exhibit a resemblance, but to produce an object whose 
loveliness should gratify the spectator. Impression, which most modern artists seek, was not their 
aim ; beauty was their constant Latium ; and if they ever selected subjects of a tragical nature they 
softened down the terror under the control of beauty. Laocoon in Virgil shrieks with the wdld horror 
of irrepressible agony : such an emotion would in stone be too violent to give pleasure, and the ex- 
tended mouth would have been ungraceful ; in the sculpture, therefore, theie is nothing seen of this 
but what Sadoleto has called, " the stifled sigh of anguish." When Timanthes painted the sacrifice 
of Iphigenia, he drew a veil over the father's face ; not from inability to represent his giief in 
adequate power, for the more violent the emotion the more strongly are the features disposed, and 
the more easy, in consequence, is the painter's task ; but because the deep passion of that deadly suf- 
fering would have carried him beyond the bounds of beauty. Let me fortify my position by the 
authority of Winkelmann : " There are some sorts of sensation," says the best of all modem critics, 
" which are displayed in the countenance by the most shocking contortions, and throw the entire 
figure into postmes so violent that all those lines ot grace, which its forms evolved when its dis- 
position was tranquil, are destroyed. These passions the ancients either avoided entirely, or repre- 
sented them under such modifications as admitted a certain proportion of beauty. The images of 
Tage and despair deformed none of their works. Anger was subdued into severity. Jupiter hurling 
thunder was, va. the verse of the poet, furious with indignation ; in the marble of the sculptor he was 


only grave," According to the poetical tradition, Love made the first trial at the fine arts : and the fable 
of the birth prefigured the history. The matter was deemed worthy of the interposition of government ' 
and a well-known law of the Thebans commanded the exclusive imitation of the beautiful, and punished 
by a fine the delineation of any thing offensive to the sight. A Greek epigram records, with high 
commendation, that a painter refused to portray a cei tain man because he was ugly; and the triumph 
of the portrait-statue was limited to those who had three times borne the lauiel, that the chances of 
an ill-looking subject might be small. Pauson, alone of Grecian painteis, selected deformed and 
hideous objects, and he passed his life in abject poverty. Aristotle strongly advises that no young 
person should be allowed to see his works, that their imagination might be filled only with beauty. 
It is a striliing illustration of the truth of our remarks, that among all the works of ancient art, re-- 
corded or remaining, statues, bas-reliefs, and pictures, not a single representation of a Fui-y is to be 
found. If these principles be just, Mr. Alston and his putrefactions perish together. I will venture 
to say that if this picture had been shown in Athens, the people would either have shivered it into 
threads as Jerdan did Maclise's Soane, or a law would have been passed for its suppression. 

Modern designers forget that they are artists as well &s painters ,- they do not perceive that their 
profession is not simply to represent nature, but to represent it according to the laws of art.* To 
paint merely for impression or resemblance, without reference to the inherent spirit of the craft, is 
entitled to as little praise as a musician's imitation of a storm without regard to harmony and the 
laws of his instrument. The Greeks and the Germans are almost the only people who have appre- 
ciated the high value of art, for art's sake ; and have perceived the high and peculiar pleasure arising 
from the mere manner of description or representation, quite independent on the beauty of the thing 
described. Half the charm of a Greek ode springs from seeing with what skilful grace the poet 
moves beneath his fetters — how dominant are the laws of art — how imposing is the thraldom of 
genius working out its self-defined task — how nobly severe is the conscience of taste. It is the per- 
ception of high artistic talent that makes the prose of Suckling, Walpole, and Beckford, so fascinating, 
and renders Gray the favorite poet of the scholar. Mr. Alston has no^bowed under this flowery yoke. 

On another ground we disapprove this painting. The artist can exhibit but a single moment of 
time and a single point of view, and his production, moreover, is to be often examined, and long 
dwelt on. The portrait painter should therefore seize that expression of the face which is the most 
strictly natural, which is the centre and hinge of every other phase of the countenance, to which 
every phase can be referred and from which all can be derived : the historical painter should select 
that moment of the story which is the most pregnant with future meaning, and leads on to higher 
and higher interest ; the most elevated point of excitement should not be chosen, but the prelude to 
it. A common artist in Greece painted Medea slaying her children : Timomachus more wisely showed 
her meditating their death. Something must be left to the fancy, or else pictures become lifeless, 
and the art ceases to be poetic, and becomes meanly mimetick. The sculptor of Laocoon chisels a 
sigh ; imagination superadds a shriek ; had he exhibited a shriek, imagination could do nothing. The 
business of art is to stimulate interest, not satisfy it. Now Mr. Alston has seized a passion and a 
state of it which admits of no progression of wonder ; the next moment and a second glance will 
destroy it. There is no climax of emotion, no aggrandizement of interest : there is no future to the 
story; the present comprises and concludes all : the drama is fairly over, and the excitement ended. 
Had he shown us a fiend or giant thus rising on his astonished enemies, we should have been chain- 
ed in expectant interest; now there is nothing to follow ; the next instant will unknit the corrugated 
brows of the bystanders, and turn surprise to simple joy. The subject in fact is poetical and noi 
pictorial ; but as the painter did select it, he should have shown us the dead man rising before the com- 
pany were aware of it, so that we might be arrested in wonder as to what they would think when 
tiiey perceived the miracle. 

We cannot help suspecting Mr. Alston of a bit of sly satire in representing the wife in tears at the 
recovery of her husband ; one remembers the lines of Byron in Don Juan ; 

Tears shed into the grave of the connection 
Would probably salute the resurrection. 

If the painter merely meant to show us a picture of life just revived, as the poet of" The Giaour" 
has given us one of existence just departed, his failure is signal. On all hands it is a miserable piece 
of business, alike disgraceful to the artist, the academy, the city, the state, the nation, and the world; 
and even reflecting some discredit on the universe. 

Let us turn then from this work of native genius, to some of the foreign pictures, which are aroynd 
us, of which the only valuable ones are those collected by Mr. Powel in France, during the revolu- 
tion of the barricades, and by his permission now in the academy. 

* The lawyers have a nice distinction of this kiad, in their tenure "at the will of tUe Isad, accort?- 
ing to the custom, of the manor" 

vox. Y.—Sft. II. 30 1. 

80 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

flere we have the Cecilia of Guido, (No, 37.,) said to be the original. It may be so, and if it is 
so, it is the most valuable picture in America, for Guido's Cecilia is vvorld-famous. On comparing 
Morghen's engraving of the veritable original with this one, some variations, especially in the turban, 
are perceptible; and the proprietor may be compelled to resort to the convenient supposition of pos- 
sessors, that his is a duplicate by the same great master. It is assuredly an exquisite picture, and no 
artist could regret the imputation of its authorship. The rapt and almost insensible posture of an 
enthusiast communing with the spirit which maddens it, has never been better exhibited. The 
ebandmi of the person, without either stiffness or ungracefulness, — the awful stillness of every fea- 
A^^e. in the repose of intense excitement, — the moody air of the countenance as of one past the first 
^tage of enthusiasm, which is glad aspiration, and attaining the last, which is masterless possession 
by the o'er-swaying presence — the merger of personal in spiritual emotion — the Hstlessness of one 
^< over whom her Immoitality broods like the day, a master o'er a slave," of one " that, deaf and silent, 
xeads the eternal deep" of harmony, " haunted forever by the eternal mind" of music, — all this is in 
the highest style of genius, and quite sets the painter on a level with the poet. Guido's creation 
xealizes all that Wordsworth has conceived of 

That serene and blessed state 
In which the affections gently lead us on 
Until the breath of the corporeal frame 
And e'en the motion of this human blood 
Almost suspended, we are laid asleep 
In body, and become a living soul. 

The whole state and attitude of this figure presents itself to our mind as such a simple and har- 
rmonious whole, that we can scarcely persuade ourselves that it has been elaborated by the successive 
additions of partial labor, — that it was "the mellow fruit of toil intense." One thinks of the question 
ef the Esquimaux woman when standing in the dome of St. Paul's, " was this thing put here, or was 
it made 1" 

Turn we to this " Holy Family, after Raphael D' Urbino" — or, as it should be called, the meet- 
ing of Mary and Elizabeth, (no. 15.;) — a fine gala-day picture, — like a Persian morning in summer, 
bright and brilliant, wildly joyous and splendidly glad. The colors are fresh, and a little glaring; 
but time will take care of that matter. The siory goes that the copy was made for the Duchess of 
Berri, and ere the oil was dry she was obliged to leave Paris, and the painting being exposed to sale, 
Mr. Powel became the possessor. The artist, being a secret adherent of the exiled party, refused to 
give up his name for fear of displeasing the citizen king. 

This picture calls to mind the notion of Byron, or Browne, of the music of a beautiful face. The 
forms are disposed in comminghng curves, with such liquid grace, — the dark and manly face of 
Joseph and the age-brown and care- withered, yet pleasing, countenance of Elizabeth relieve so har- 
moniously the young and glowing cheeks of all the rest, — that musical, is the epithet that at once 
occurs to every spectator. The expression has been chaiged with a false license of metaphor, but 
it is strictly true to the laws of mind , and if metaphysics ever come to be written by a man who 
knows how to think, it will be stated that all sensations and impressions — thoughts, sounds, odors, 
and all others — present themselves to the mind as images ; and, being homogeneous, may of course 
be compared. Go over an overture in your own mind, and you will find that it is a picture. I went 
many years ago, to see old Beethoven, and found him sitting before an enormous instrument, which 
he called his piano-organ, consisting of an organ with a bankof forte-piano keys above, of which the 
wires were at the side, — an affair of his own contriving. He was in gloiious spirits, and resuming 
his seat at my request, begged me to choose a subject, then exclaimed immediately, " wait, I'll play 
you a Cathedral ; it shall be Strasburgh, for I know it by heart : and I will do what Napoleon me- 
ditated, for my cathedral shall have both towers." He began; planting the solid masonry with the 
deep tones of the organ, and running out the tracery at the same time with the gay notes of the 
piano. Every limb of the old gentleman was in action ; both elbows frequently on one instru- 
ment, while the fingers were on the other ; he held also in his mouth a wand, which he called 
his tongue-finger, shod with lead enough to weigh down any of the organ-keys on which it fell, and 
this he directed with astonishing success. I can only say that I recognized every part of his musical 
structure, and felt the same emotions which the present building had excited. 

The face of the infant Christ is an exhaustless field for pictorial genius ; for it is capable of being 
charged with a thousand different yet appropriate expressions. In Raphael's vision of Sextus you 
have as much mere intelligence in the countenance as the soft features of youth will bear : in this 
you see nothing but the glad animal delight of a boy rushing to the aims of his mother. I confess 
that in no painting have I found that blending of divinity with humanity, in the pictured counte- 
.nance, which belonged so mysteriously to the real character. 

What magnificence of color in that Madonna by Sussoferald ! (16) The sky of Italy is 
" darkly, deeply, beautifully blue" than that splendid band above the head. Yet the face, though you 
ccannot take exception to a single feature, has something of cold and wily in its beauty : that part of 


the coloring may perhaps have faded. No painter, I suspect, ever fully succeeded in representing 
personal beauty, or, never gave satisfaction to all by his attempts ; and this by the necessary defect 
of his art. Let us stop a moment to compare the power of the painter and the poet in the exhibi- 
tion of female beauty. 

The poet operates by the description of effects, and these are universal ; the painter by the exhi- 
bition of causes, and these are particular ; the former are uniform in character, the latter are various 
in influence ; the first shall meet the sympathy of all, the second touch the feelings of only a part. 
When the poet tells us of the impression which his Genevieve produces on his heart, every reader 
can appropiiate the emotion to himself; each calls to mind the patticular lady whom he most admires, 
and the poem seems to him precisely and exclusively applicable to her; because the same passion 
has been felt by all, though produced by qualities as various as the nature of each. But of all these 
causes the painter is limited to a single set ; and what he places on his canvas can affect only that 
fraction of beholders who may happen to agree with himin definite notions of the highest beauty— 
a number in any case small, and farther narrowed by the power of moral qualities in warping the 
natural conceptions of ideal fairness. His most beautiful woman must be an individual ; she must 
be either of the Spanish sort, warm and impassioned, oi of Saxon blood, with azure eyes and flaxen 
hair, all light and smiles : and being such will not arrest the regard of one who has associated a difi. 
ferent style of face with all he knows of gladness or feels of love. This inferiority is inseparable from 
painting, because it belongs to the real objects. Herein lies the reason why nine persons out often 
are utterly disappointed in the illustrations of a favorite poet, notwithstanding the admitted excel- 
lence of the figures; from the bard we collect " a vision of our own, the treasured dream of time," 
and when we turn to the engraving we feel " that though 'tis fair, it is some other Yarrow." You 
read a popular Persian poem, and your sympathy with your author is complete ; you look at an ad- 
mired Persian painting and are outraged at seeing the eyebrows meet on the top of the nose. This 
then is the amount of the differences between the provinces of the arts ; that painting may acciden- 
tally be more decided in its impression, but poetry must essentially be more universal in its appie- 

It is the business of every artist to ascertain the strong points of his art, and develope them with 
all his ability. From the distinction which we have deduced, we infer that the poet is availing him- 
self of the full advantages of his art, then, only, when he describes persons by impressions and not by 
delineations, and that when he individualizes his pictures of beauty he leaves his tower of strength, 
and accepts the fetter of a rival. This test distinguishes the artistic skill of poets with nice success, 
and in fact draws a line between the very highest class of artists and all others. When Byron makes 
all his descriptions portraits, we must conclude either that he did not understand his art with con- 
summate delicacy, or that if he did, the strong pleasure of evolving his own personal impressions was 
" the fatal Capua for which he lost the world, and was content to lose it." Shakspeare manages the 
matter differently ; he never describes the appearance of his heroines, but the archeressis detected by 
her penetrating shaft. Who knows whether Ophelia had blue or black eyes, or who can tell whether 
Desdemona's hair was ebon or hazel ? When we see Othello bursting from the strong tangles of his 
doubt, as she looks round on him, and exclaiming with impressive fervor, " Perdition seize my soul 
but I do love thee !" and when we behold even the steeled murderer intoxicated by her sweet breath, 
then it is that we realize what a rich pearl she was. Of Cleopatra even, whose historical character and 
traditionary qualities might have seduced a less rigid artist, we have nothing but such gorgeous gene- 
ralities as " Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety." Sadi might object to a 
blue eye, and Scott to a black one, but Jew, Turk, Heretic, and Infidel bow alike before this grand 
impression. Look, too, at old Homer ; what do we know from the poet of the face or form of her who 
*' for nine long years had set the world in arms 1" Have we any thing about the " bright, black eye," 
the dimpling cheek, the glossy hair] Not a bit of it. " She was the most beautiful woman in the 
T?orld," says Homer, and there's an end of it. But when we see the cold and hoary sages of the 
council rising to look after her as she leaves the room — when we reflect that she was all that Venus 
could contrive, all that Paris could demand, all that Menelaus wished for — when we remember that 
for her Achilles struck, for her great Hector died — then we feel how wise was the forbearance of the 
poet, and how superior is poetry when rightly managed, to the best performance of the painter. We 
see Helen as we see the wind ; only by the commotion which her presence occasions. Ah ! those 
old fellows knew what they were about. 

What a darling picture is this of the marriage of St. Catharine (No. 4.) by Parmegiano I the 
darling' st of the darling kind. It is too exquisite to criticize : but I shall dream of it to-night. 

A fine Madonna is this ! (No. 81 ;) there is a subdued and sacred air about it which is good; it is 
a prayer-book picture. By " Corregio" says the catalogue; sed quaere de hoc. I know too well the 
value of Corregios in Europe, ever to expect to see one of this size in any cis-Atlantic collection. 
To account for its being here, a story is told of its having been concealed in one of the Royal galle- 
ries at the time of the " distribution bill" of the allies, by having a frame of stucco work wrought 
over it, and being sold when those galleries were thrown open by the mob. Unfortunately I am " one 
of those lank rascals," as Savage says, " who will never agree upon any thing but doubting." I 
should call it a fine copy ; a fine picture it certainly is, and when it hung in the gallery of the pro- 

82 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

prietor, in whose princely mansion it had a small room to itself, was well lighted by a single large 
window, and was capable of being seen at a becoming distance, it must be allowed that it exhibited 
much of what Sterne calls " Corregiosity ;" the figures seemed to float in the air like the filmy forms 
of the valley gossamer. 

Here are a couple of landscapes, or woodscapes, by Ruysdale, (Nos. 65. and 79.) which it is worth 
■while to walk forty miles any day to look at. There is a depth of perspective and a precision of 
natural representation which are wholly wonderful. " Landscapes are the pcculi^ir subjects of the 
painter," says Lessing, " and the poet should never attempt them, for his business is with successive 
incidents, not contemporary circumstances." Not quite so fast. Not facts, but the perception of 
them concern art : it is quite true that in point of fact the painter shows you the whole scene at once; 
but as the perception of it is by successive parts, it stands, in relation to the spectator, precisely on a 
footing with description. That when the details have been studied, th« whole may be viewed in 
mutual dependency, is an advantage on the side of painting; that when the whole has been under- 
stood, the parts in a second reading may be again contemplated separately, and successive perception 
again be enjoyed, is in the favor of poetry ; the latter has also a superiority in being able to illustrate, 
and especially to shade and color, by the aid of moral emotions, of which " Cooper's Hill" is a ca- 
pital instance. Lessing says that action, and not description, is the poet's true stiength, and he says 
justly. But he was not aware of the resources of a consummate artist ; he did not know that by re- 
presenting a diversified landscape, not as it stood, but as its various features rose upon the mind, all 
the spirit of action might be imparted to description. The most successful example of this which I 
am acquainted with, is Pope's* moonlight scene, in the eleventh book of his translation of Homer. 
We are supposed to be looking through the eyes of some actual spectator; every thing is shown in 
leference to him, and by a figure of Berkleian boldness the scene is exhibited as rising into existence 
according as it is consecutively observed by the looker-on. 

Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise, 
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies. 

Surely to transform description into creation without oflfending taste, and to bring a new domain 
tinder the sceptre, not by distorting the arm, but by transporting the transmuted field, is the triumph 
of art. Wordsworth and Coleridge having adopted an absurd system whose existence required the 
overthrow of Pope, have ridiculed the passage which I have alluded to, as melodious nonsense ; but 
both of them understood the meaning and motive of the poet, as little as they understood the beauty 
of modesty. Poetry never won richer laurels than when Sandy Pope fought her battles ; and he never 
conducted a more brilliant enterprize than when he vindicated description from the charge of dull- 
ness. A less striking instance of the same manoeuvre may be found in Milton ; " straight my eye has 
caught new pleasures," etc. 

Let us give one glance to " Death on the Pale Horse," which stands in the next room. I have al- 
ways had a profound contempt for West, as the most common-place and wooden of painters ; but 
this figure compels admiration. It has not one quality of his usual manner ; and is the only thing 
on which his fame as a great artist can be established. It is a great conception ; — the face of a being 
naturally detestable and odious, yet elevated into somewhat of exalted dignity by the high commis- 
sion which he has from the Almighty ; — apaUing, but not malignant ; hideous, but not shocking ; hor- 
rible, but not disgusting. Yet the picture is a leap, not a flight of genius : in the filling up of the 
canvas, — in the unworthy idea of a particular death in the midst of a general wasting of the world, — 
we detest the essential meanness of West's imagination, — that innate grovelling temper from which 
he never long escaped. Almighty heaven ! when the incarnate spirit of destruction was galloping 
on his pallid courser over the earth robed in night, and his extended fists flashing hell-fires, and 
universal life was fainting beneath his deadly breath, was it a time to think of lions snapping at 
horses' noses, or bulls tossing boys 1 Faugh ! I could kick the unworthy corner out of the picture. 

But we came here to get cool, and must not allow ourselves to grow warm in anger. 

* Lessing quotes with triumph, what Warburton tells us of Pope's mature contempt for the pic 
torial essays of his own youthful muse ; but when he compared description to a heavy feast of sauces, 
he was certainly only condemning the manner usually practised. 




One lovely night in May, 

When pearly moonbeams lay 
In flower-beds sleeping, 

And glittering dew-drop fell 

Down to the green wood dell, 
Blue violets steeping ; 
A veil of pure and silvery mist 

Lay soft on forest tree and plain, 
And quiv'ring o'er still waters, kissed 

Their sluggish waves to life again. 

The slender brooklet sped 

O'er cresses in its bed, 
With mellow chiming, 

And lulling breezes sung 

The glancing leaves among, 
Like spirits rhyming. 
And in the still blue sky there came 

Stars show'ring down their golden light. 
Like bursting buds, or gems of flame, 

Set burning in the biow of night. 

That eve, a smiling elf 

Stole out to rest himself. 
Where vines unwreathing 

Form'd green and dewy bowers 

He heaped a couch of flowers. 
With odors breathing. 
Young Cupid piled his bed full high ; 

His cherry lip was bright with glee, 
A dimpled cheek, a sapphire eye. 

And a mellow laugh, the rogue, had he. 

His graceful bow unstrung 
Beside the boy was flung. 

In careless seeming ; 
And darts were scattered round 
Upon the dewy ground. 

Like jewels gleaming. 
Love sweetly slept — his weary wing 
Lay folded o'er his dreamy head. 
Like rainbow fragments scattering 
Their brightness o'er his scented bed. 

And like a sunny ray, 
His empty quiver lay ; 

Around it clinging 
Were tiny silver bells. 
Hid under rosy shells. 

With magic ringing. 

As Cupid slept, each slender tongue 
Breathed out a sweet and silver sound. 

As if ten thousand fairies sung 
Amid the rustling leaves around. 

Far more than half the night. 

Young Love — the roguish wight — 
Lay sweetly dreaming ; 

When one, with silent tread, 

Stole softly to his bed. 
The moonlight streaming 
L^pon old Mammon's clouded eye, 

The sloney look and brow of care, 
Made the beholder wonder why 

He should have sought a shelter there. 

Tuneless became each bell. 

Whose low and wailing knell 
Was faintly dying ; 

Each blossom closed its cup, 

Folding its odors up. 
And sweets denying. 
Young Love spread out his wings to rise, 

And left his rosy cheek all bare ; 
With dimpled hands he rubb'd his eyes, 

And shook the buds from off his hair. 

The youngster idly lay, 

Spurning the flowers away, 
With drowsy feeling ; 

A leg and foot of snow. 

With warm blood melting through, 
The while revealing ; 
When Mammon, with a crafty joy. 

Drew forth a chain of massy gold. 
And rudely bound the struggling boy 

Most firmly in its glitt'ring fold. 

There panting on the ground, 

With golden fetters bound. 
Poor Love lay crying, 

With tear-drops in his eye, 

His wings all droopingly 
Around him lying. 
Cupid was slandered much of yore. 

But he is less a fool than knave ; 
In truth, it was not long before 

A proof of this — the rogue ! — he gave. 



He would not feel despair, 

E'en under Mammon's care ; 
So, quick resolving, 

He wept upon his chain — 

Like ice in pleasant lain, 
The gold dissolving, 
Fell sparkling brightly o'er his bed ; 

Then up the laughing Cupid sprung, 
Out from his blooming arbor fled, 

And shook his wings and gaily sung : 

Think ye to fetter Love with gold 1 

Ah, no, no ! 
"With brow of care and features old, 
With pulseless veins, and bosom cold 1 

Ah, no, no ! 

Enchain the star 
That gleams afar. 

Withhold the leaves from the tree ; 

Forbid the heart 

To act its part, 
Then hope with gold to fetter me I 

Could Love a humble captive be 1 

Ah, no, no ! 
The heart is Cupid'.s monarchy ; 
No gold is in his treasury. 

Ah, no, no ! 

Ambition bold, 
Piide stern and cold, 

Are subjects, Mammon, for thy chain ; 
But Love is free 
As thought can be, 

And flings thy shackles back again I 




And this is the vast sea. 
That spreads its ample bosom 'neath our gaze ; 

This the great deep that we. 
In speechless rapture, look upon and praise ! 

Emblem of mighty power, 
Whose heaving breast circles the globe around ; 

Type that dost still endure 
To shadow forth the infinite profound. 

How beautiful and bland 
2s its smooth aspect, and its murmuring flow, 

As slowly down the land. 
Bright Phoebus sinks in rich and lustrous glow ! 

And buoyant on its breast, 
Dance the tall tapering mast and snowy sail, 

While from the fervid west 
The fanning breezes blow with gentle gale. 

But see, what glories rise ! 
The spotless moon, emerging from the main. 

Tinges with silver dyes 
The rippling wave that glances back again.] 

Surge upon surge rolls on 
In varied, soft, and pleasing harmony. 

As 'mid the mortal throng 
Successive myriads rise, and cease to be ; 

And as they cease, they rise 
In prouder, greater majesty and power, 

'Till mixing with the skies 
They end their fleeting being — and their hoar. 

Here ! to these haunts repair. 
Ye who, envelop'd in the city's heat, 

Languish for genial air, 
And sigh for blessings which you cannot greet. 

Lo ! countless blessings rise — 
Strength to the weary — balm for care and pain — 

Here health, with sparkling eyes, 
Enamor'd courts the freshness of the main. 

Bow 'neath the limpid wave. 
And dip your tresses in the dark blue sea ; 

And while the waters lave. 

Thank him who ocean gave — 
Meet symbol of his vast infinity. 



We have thought it right to give publicity to the following very intelligent lettei, lately writtert- 
by a settler to his mother, in St. Giles's, London, on account of the valuable statistical informatioji 
it contains, 

Catch.uni's Shallow on the little Red Rker 
Arke?isaw April 1838. 


Yeh. mustent wunder if you havnt herd of me for sume time, but grate grcfe' 
is dumb as Shaxpire sais, and I was advised to hop my twig and leaf old ingland, witch indiedt? i 
was verry sorrorful, but now i am thanks gudnes saf, and in amerrykey. i ardly no ware miselfy hxkt. 
the hed of this will tel my tail. I ham a sqwatter in the far wurst, about 5 a-mile this side sundcwr^ 
an if i ad gon mutch father i shud av found nothin but son, an no nite at all. You kno hovst the: 
hummeggrating Agent tolde me that ifpeepelcudnt livin Sent Gileses amerrykey was capitle to dj 
in ; besides ses he if youre not veriy nere you can ade yure mother in distres. so i went aborde 
a ship wat was going to Noo Orlines. Ive herd peepel tawk abowt rodes at C but the rodes oa. the 
attalantick is the verry ruffest i evir rode on and it was very long an very cold an we had nothin % 
heat hardly, but we founde a ded rat in a warter cask witch the flavur was grately increased thate?-- 
by. at last we cam to the arbur at the citty of Noo Orlines witch is all under the bottum of tlie- 
top of the rivver and we ad a ankering to go a-shoie. I ad no idear as the rivers was so hi 
in this contry, but as the assent is so veirj^ esy i didnt fele it at al. The noo orlines peepel is odid 
fishis and not at all commun plaice ; wen all the peepel in the streets is musterd it is a pepper aii 
sault poppulashun, thare is blak wites an wite blaks an a sorte of mixt peepel caled quadruunts. be- 
cause they are of fore colers blak, an wite, an wite blaks, and blak wites. Has the rivver is so^ ver-- 
ry hi it is always hi water, an the munnifold advantiges of the citty dipends on the gudnes of its- 
banks, there is loks in em to let the water out and keys to kepe it in. munney ere is very commoii 
and is cald sentse, and evvery thing is cheep in Noo Orlines 5 dollers bills bein only worth 2^ doi- 
lers. We went up the rivver in a large bote like a noise ark only more promiscus. the current 
acount was aginst us. it dont turn and turn agen like at putny bridg, and as it runs alwys won way 
i wunder it dont run away altogethir. Tiiite is no towns nor tailer shops nor pallisses as i expecto^ 
rated there wood be. tbe wood was all quite wilde not a bit of tame no ware nor no sines of the 
blessedniss of civilazashun as jales and jin shops nor no kitching gardins nor fields nor ouses iLOir 
lanes nor alleys nor gates nothin but alleygators. after a grate dale of settlin i settled to settle as. 
abuv ware yu will rite to me. These staits is caled the united staits becawse theire mails and fe- 
mails all united, there's six of them wimmin staits. 2 Carolinas, Miss Sourry, Missis Sippy,, 
Louesa Anna, an A^argina, all the rest is mails, i have sene no cannibels an verry few ingins b€r»- 
sides steam ingins they're quite unhedducated and dont emply no tailers. I dont like fammin mntcli 
but praps I shal wen i get used to it, tho its very ilconvenient at furst. i am obliged to wurk very, 
ard and if i have to chop my one wood much longer i han determined to cut my stick. 

Dere muther, i think i shuld be more cumfurtable if i had a few trifels witch you culd bye me, if 
yew wud onley sel sumthing, and send me all the bills partickular, and I'l be sure to owe it yoii — - 
namly sum needils and thred, and sum odd buttens, but thems of little use without you send me 
sum shirts, and a waistcote, and upper cote, to put em on, when those tumbles off thats on when: 
you sends em, and sum brads, and some hammers to drive em with, and a spade an a pikax, an 3^ 
saw, and sum fish hooks, and gunpowdr, an sum shot, witch they wil be of the gratest conveniea- 
cy, if you can send me a gun. likewis som stockins, an shues and other hardwears, only its no use 
to send me any bank nots, for my neiest naybours is sum ingin wagwams above 70 miles of, an i 
cudnt get change thare, so dont forgit some led, and some bullit moldes, for some blak fellers has. 
bin fishin close by, jist within 10 miles an I wants to have a pop at em with luv to all yore dutiful 

Sax. Stroilek^ 



"-^Onee more foot to foot and hand to hand, they engaged, and they seemed to collect all their energies, and to fight 
with a steadier anda cooler determination. Neveithless, the combat was short."— Buhver. 


(Continued from page 338, vol. IV.) 

It* Was In tlie lovely autumnal part of the j^ear when Thomas Girty and I started alone, with ou'^ 
^knapsacks on our backs, and our rifles on our shoulders, up the beautiful Miami Valley. It was our 
intention to continue as far as my deserted farm, and then hunt up north. We waded through the 
dry leaves, which prevented our shooting game, for the deer commonly heard us advancing some 
time before we were near enough to shoot them. The second day we came to the promontory over- 
looking my faim. It was the same from which I had beheld the blackened ruins of all I loved. My 
heart swelled with emotion, as I again looked upon the coals which lay scattered about where once 
stood my house, and where once I gazed with a father's pride, at my playing child — but all had 
■vanished, and where I once looked upon my family, and on the spot beneath which they lay, stood a 
iarge wolf, staring at us " with a brute unconscious gaze," while his white teeth shone in the sun 
like pearls. I don't know why it is, but I was seized with a sudden fit of madness at seeing a wolf 
on that sacred spot. I aimed my rifle at him and shot him; he sank in his tracks dead. Girty was 
well aware of the painful emotions which the sight below would kindle within me, and silently retired 
.some distance, and lay down upon the grass ; when the rifle fired he sprang to his feet, but upon 
looking at the dead wolf he immediately divined the feelings which caused me to shoot the animal, 
and lay down again. I went down to the ruins — the spot which I had dug for a garden the day 
previous to the catastrophe was filled with weeds, which grew rank and luxuriantly as high as my 
Tiead ; every thing looked gloomy — even the delightful landscape appeared to partake of the gloom 
■which hung over my once pleasant abode. The weeds had sprang up even within the small spring- 
house, and ground-ivy hung in sombre festoons from the roof. W^e tanied in that spring-house for 
some hours drinking the clear cold water and talking over our adventures. Girty dwelt long on the 
number of scalps we had taken since m}^ family was burnt, and spoke with hope of the approaching 
time when we would tear the reeking scalps,'even perhaps, he added, from those who had participated 
in rendering this delightful place a desert. He struck the right chord of my heart; for revenge had 
"taken the place of the love which was once there, and with a master hand he aroused those feelings, 
till I was eager for starting immediately for the nearest Indian town to lie in ambush and shoot the 

" Now you are fit for something," said Girty, as we arose to leave the spring-house. " These 
sorrowful thoughts," he continued, " will do for one to indulge in at times, but there are certain times 
4br every thing, and this is no time for harboring such thoughts, when we are uncertain what step 
2nay bring us among Indians, when 'tis necessary we should fight, and 'tis impossible for one to fight 
Ttvhen depressed in mind." 

I adopted Girty's opinion, and became more cheerful. We took a northern direction, and crossed 
the Big Miami river at a ripple, which has now washed many hundred yards lower, and soon came 
to the dense brush prairie ; here we killed the first game since we started. A large oak tree grew 
some distance to the right of our path, in passing which our attention was attracted by a rustling near 
its roots, and a large bear came out of the bushes, and looking neither to the right or left, rarr past 
Tis, and directly for a towering oak, which grew some hundred yards from where we stood. The 
singular awkward motions of the bear were ludicrous in the extreme, and instead of shooting him, 
3as would have been our first action, we both were seized with such laughter, that it would have been 
impossible. He ran so fast, and appeared so eager to reach the tree, that we both simultaneously 
looked from whence he came, knowing that he must be chased. We stooped in the bushes, and the 


mystery was instantly solved. The largest panther I ever saw, leaped out from the bushes, and with 
fier^' eyes, and open mouth, bounded after the bear ; at every bound he cleared a space of at least 
twelve feet, and bruin soon began, by his clumsy and rapid motions, to evince signs that he was 
aware of his critical situation. I cocked my gun, but Girty caught my aim. " Don't shoot the pan- 
thei," he whispered, " for we will see some glorious sport ; the panther will kill the bear, and then 
wc may kill the panther with two loads — they are dangerous animals, you know" — at the same 
time giving me a look which reminded me of the wrestle I had with one of those dangerous animals. 
I uncocked the trigger, and we eagerly and silently followed to witness the fun. The bear gained 
the tree first, and scrambled up with a trepidation, which plainly proved he knew his life was ire 
imminent danger, and gaining a large fork, he lay down, and gazed upon his foe, which lay watch- 
ing him, like a cat watching a mouse. The bear licked his paws and appeared to think himself free 
from danger, and at length fixed himself for a comfortable nap, in the fork of the tree, but occasionally 
we observed, he would open one eye that his enemy might not steal a march on him. We were 
within twenty yards of the animals, and had an excellent view of all that was going on, and it was 
with the greatest difficulty Girty could prevent me from shooting the panther, for he lay at such a 
pretty distance ; but Girty, who thought more of the sport than the panther, held my arm firmly, 
while we looked at the panther and bear alternately, eager for the watching animal below to com- 
mence his ascent. After he had become thoroughly rested, the panther backed out about ten feet 
irom the trunk of the tree, and with one leap was as far up it. The bear was not so sound asleep, 
but he knew what was going on, and now scrambled up the tree with all the rapidity his clumsy 
motions would permit, and the panther followed hissing and spitting. To the very highest limbs the 
bear chmbed, where he set up a long howl, as he beheld the panther following close upon his heels. 
They were now at the farthest point of the top, and both on one limb, which bent and swungi be- 
neath their weight, till it began to crack. It was a thrilling sight to see two of the most dreaded and 
savage animals of the wilderness, battling on a small limb, which appeared to be three hundred feet 
above the ground. Girty jumped upon his feet, and yelled with excitement, while the animals were 
so busy holding on with one paw that they did not hear us. The bear squealed everj' time the pan- 
ther struck him, and the panther's hissing could be heard distinctly by us. The panther could not 
use his hhid claws, or poor bruin would have fared badly, still he fought so furiously with his fore- 
paws that the bear could not resist his energetic blows, and doubling himself up, till he appeared like 
a huge black ball, he loosened his hold, and came to the ground with tremendous force, breaking 
many limbs which would have impeded the passage of a heavy man. He bounce*! up at least three 
feet, regaining his legs, which he put into immediate and rapid use, and ran off for another large tree, 
some distance ahead. The panther was not far behind, for so soon as the bear had let go his hold, 
he ran down the tree with a rapidity which was astonishing, and reached the ground before the bear 
had ran fifty steps. They both passed within a few feet of where we were hid, but were so intent 
with their own affairs as not to notice us, although we stooped behind a small log which did not 
screen half of our bodies. With a few bounds the panther was at the bear's heels, who turned aroimd 
reared upon his hind legs, and commenced the fight in a true pugilistic style with his fore-legs. None 
but those who have witnessed a similar fight, could form an idea of the tremendous and destri'ctive 
weapons which a panther possesses in his hind claws. The panther flew upon him and struck his 
long sharp claws in his eyes, and in less time than it requires to write it, he tore out the bear's 
entrails, with his hind claws — the bear fell upon the earth incapable of resistance. The panther 
walked off a few steps, and turning around, gazed for some time upon his prostrate enemy, who was 
striving ineffectually to replace his entrails with his paws. After viewing him some time, the pan- 
ther sat down, and began to lick down his ruffled hairs, but observing the bear- making efforts to get 
up, he flew upon the helpless fellow again, and a dreadful roaring ensued. 

" I cannot stand by and see the strong oppress the weak," said Girty, whose compassion returned 
as hisr curiosity was gratified. We both cocked our guns, but could not shoot with any degree of 
certainty till the panther would be still, which soon happened. The bear lay on the ground apparently 
dead, and the panther stood sentinel ready for another spring, if he should stir. His breast was pre- 
sented full in view, but he was about forty yards from us, which is a long shot to hit the heart, but 
we could not stir without being seen, and I aimed and fired. He sprang high into the air, and fell 
upon his side. We cautiously advanced to him, (I had not forgotten the former panther's teeth,) 
and one glance at his fiery eye-balls, convinced us that our precaution was well taken. The ball had 
passed through the fore shoulder, and broke both of the bones, but his destructive hind feet were still 
sound. After standing some distance from him, and looking at his ineffectual attempts to reach us, 
till we grew tired, Girty shot him through the head. While Girty was attending to this busines I 
dispatched the still breathing bear with my tomahawk. It was rapidly getting dark, and I built a 
large fire, while Girty skinned the bear. The wolves gathered around, and smelling the flesh, kept 
up a constant howl, which reverberated in the silent woods, and appeared as if the wilderness was 
alive with them ; some were so bold that they ventured almost upon us, but after we shot two, they 
retired beyond the Hght of the fire. We drew down a large sapling, and swung up our bear, and then 
dragged the panther close to the fire, Girty skinning him while I cooked supper, by screwing a ram- 
rod through the flesh of the bear, and holding it in the fire till done. 

VOL. V. NO. II. D 2 

88 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

" That was no wolf s cry," said Girty, and he stood up, and listened attentively, " Then it was 
an owl's," said I, and proceeded to screw another piece of flesh on my ramrod, but Girty stood still, 
and finally the sound came again, apparently much nearer, and could not be mistaken from the hu- 
anan voice with that broken yell, occasioned by rapidly slapping the hand on the mouth as the sound 
issued forth. This peculiar cry we had both heaid, when it could not be otherwise than indelibly 
impressed upon our memories. We knew it to be the cry of Indians, who, we knew from their 
customs, saw the light of our fire at a distance, the night being very dark — and were, as is customary 
with them, hallooing previous to entering the camp, not doubting but we were a part of their own 
party. Girty immediately answered the cry, and we then took our stand at a convenient shooting 
distance from the fire, and awaited their arrival intending to vanquish them if possible. Girty gave 
the directions, " If they number more than four or five, don't shoot, but silently decamp, but if they 
do not, shoot, but aim true, and we are certain of success — remember the rest will be so intimidated 
they will not fight enough to overcome a woman." 

With these directions, we silently awaited the Indians, whom we soon heard advancing with all 
the hilarity of hungry men just entering into camp, where they expected to have a hearty meal. 
The party consisted of twelve, who were all armed with rifles, etc. I kept my place undecided what 
to do. One fellow of a gigantic stature, who appeared as if he could rival a Hercules, and by whom 
the rest appeared as children, walked up to the panther, and catching him by the neck, grunted a 
deep guttural " ough," and held the huge animal up before him, as if it had been a kitten, while some 
of the other warriors crowded around, and expressed their several feelings by the one word " ough,"' 
while others gazed around laughing, probably thinking their companions were playing them a trick 
by hiding from them. During this time I was devising a plan to get out of this dilemma, and ha«3 
finally come to the conclusion to leave as rapidly as I could, and trust to the darkness of the night 
for escape, when a stunning crack from Girty's rifle made me start, and the Indian whose great size 
had so much attracted my attention, with a shrill yell dropped the panther, and fell forwards in the 
fire, by his violent exertions in striving to extricate himself from which, he scattered the burning 
wood about, and completely extinguished the blaze. This was fortunate for us, as it was now so dark 
they could not see which course we took. Girty, as soon as he shot, passed me, and whispering 
" follow me, and load as you run," (for my gun had not been loaded since I shot the panther,) con- 
tinued his course through the thick brush, and I followed as rapidly as I could, although the limbs 
tore the skin from my face and hands at every step. The Indians soon recovered from the dismay 
that this shot had for a time thrown them into, and their yells could now be heard, as they scattered 
in pursuit of us, but the greater number followed directly in our trail, which surprised us, as the 
night was so dark that objects could not be seen one foot before us, as our scratched faces could 
testify. We continued running as fast as the bushes would permit, still the voices of the Indians 
continued on our trail. At length we eame to some running water which we waded into, and con- 
tinued up the stream for some distance in order to escape the bushes which grew luxuriantly on the 
bank, and regaining a level part of land, (which is now a beautiful farm,) we again proceeded rapidly. 
As soon as the Indians reached the brook which we waded into, they were at a stand, and apparent- 
ly at the very spot where we waded into the water. This gave us strong reasons to believe that we 
were trailed by means of a dog, which we had baffled by taking the running water, and we resolved 
to employ that stratagem as often as necessary. Instead of taking advantage of this delay of the 
Indians, we sat on a log to rest, and talked over this day's adventure. The Indians voices had died 
away, and, as we thought, they had returned again to the camp. Whilst we were laughing at their 
movements, which were very dilatory considering they had a dog, the very dog we were speaking of 
came splashing through the brook at our side, and his deep bay for the first time burst upon our 
ears, and again the Indians' voices started us upon our feet, not more than fifty yards from us. We 
both sprang for the race, and again ran up the brook, followed closely by the dog, which was a fellow 
of the large mastiff breed. We kept close together, and proved ourselves the fastest runners in the 
dark, for we soon left the dog some distance behind ; we again waded up the brook some hundred 
yards and then ventured on the land. Here we stopped to rest, and Girty declared he would go no 
farther till he killed the dog, which he said would insure our ruin as soon as daylight appeared. 
« The daylight will enable us to shoot the dog," said I, as I urged him to proceed, but he refused 
peremptorily, alleging that he wanted to kill the dog "just for the fun of cutting his throat !" This 
I thought poor fun, but determined to wait and assist my companion. The dog never barked till he 
saw us, but we were aware of his proximity by his loud and hurried breathing. As soon as he came 
to the brook, by the side of which we sat, Girty drew his knife, and stood to interrupt his passage up 
the bank. The dog hurried up it, and with eyes which glittered like burning coals, sprang at Girty's 
throat, and missing his aim, caught him by the coat collar. The violence with which he struck 
against Girty, combined with his weight, knocked him upon hia knees, but the struggle lasted but a 
moment, Girty caught the dog in his gripe, which was not unlike the force of a vice, and with a few 
thrusts of his knife, threw him upon the ground dead. The Indians had heard the voice of their dog, 
and again cried out in their peculiar manner, which was probably intended to stimulate him to greater 
exertions. We did not tarry long where we were, but again commenced our journey, at a rapid rate, 
teut it being so dark we were entirely ignorant of the direction we were taking. After running about 


two hours, we came to the big Miami about two miles above Dayton, which I advised crossing with', 
all expedition, but Girty declared he would not sleep in wet clothes that night, and no argument 
could persuade Inm from his resolution. With perfect composure he lay down to take a nap. After 
listening awhile and hearing no other noise than the wolves, and occasionally the cry of an owl, I 
concluded the Indians had given over the chase, after discovering the death of their dog. I lay down, 
and being weary with the violent exertions I had undergone, soon became utterly unconscious of 
Indians, panthers, hears, and every thing else. 

How long I slept I knew not, but was suddenly awakened by a violent kick in the side, and a cry 
of " awake !" — " no weasel !" in the Indian tongue. I sprang to my feet, upon opening my eyes, 
and observing two Indians standing over me; but my gun was gone, and also my other weapons had 
been taken away. At this moment I heard two lifle cracks in quick succession, a small distance in 
the woods, aird the fellows who surrounded me yelled like devils. My heart sank within me, and I 
became as helpless as a child. The thought of my friend, who had repeatedly risked his life to save 
mine — who had been my constant companion in perils for so many years, and who had accomplish- 
ed more to avenge the murder of my family than I had myself — that friend was now torn from me,, 
and cut off in the full bloom of manhood; my heart sank within me, and despite my exertions to 
prevent it, the tears were forced from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. The Indians did not 
bind me, but held me by the arms, which was unnecessary, as I should not have attempted to escapCj. 
for my friend Girty was killed. I could have exclaimed with the poet — 

Where thou goest, there will I go. 

Hearing a cry at a greater distance, they led me towards the direction from whence we came. The- 
dim red streaks of light at the east proclaimed the approach of day, and the black clouds brushed off^. 
and by the time we reached the spot where we killed the panther, the sun was gilding the tree tops 
with his rays. It was a beautiful day to those who were not tortured with the anticipation of suffer- 
ing worse than inquisitorial tortures. The big Indian whom Girty had shot, was lying upon his side 
and elbow, with his features distorted into an hundred writhing expressions indicating intense pain- 
from the wound occasioned by Girty's bullet, which had passed entirely through the shoulder, break- 
ing the bone, and mangling the flesh of the arm dreadfully. As soon as he saw me, I thought I could 
discern his eyes glisten with a mixture of joy and pain, as a smile played over his sternly-set features. 
He held out his hand, which I grasped and shook cordially ; this I thought prognosticated no love. 
He motioned me to take a seat, wdiich I obeyed, thinking it best not to arouse this savage's anger by 
refusing what he commanded. " The greatest storms aie preceded by a calm," thought I, as I gazed 
upon the glaring eyes of the Indians who stood about me with their arms folded, aud motionless. I 
looked about me — the panther lay upon the ground where the Indian had dropped him when shot,, 
and the bear still dangled from the sapling; nothing had been disturbed, for the warriors had been 
too busily engaged catching me. By the side of the big warrior sat a diminutive lean man intently 
engaged eyeing some dry bones and muttering some unintelligible words, which I afterwards learn- 
ed were intended as a charm to prevent the wound fiom mortifying, and which — my informant as- 
sured me with an ominous scowl — would be well in six suns (days.) I could not help observing 
with what philosophical patience the wounded man bore the intense pain which his wound must 
have occasioned ; he talked to the warriors around him in the same urbane voice in which he had. 
spoken to me, and gracefully nodded to those who addressed him, which I perceived was invariably 
with some degree of deference. This man was the celebrated chief Michihinaqua or Little Turtle, 
who in aftci times became the greatest chief and warrior of the west, and whose Fabian wisdom 
during a battle was of more avail against General Harrison thair all the chiefs put together. This 
man, at the time of which I speak, although of such a gigantic mould, was but about twenty years 
of age ; his forehead was high, and unusually expansive, indicating to an observer at once the giant 
intellect, which rendered him afterwards so famous. His features were of air uncommonly intellec- 
tual cast, and the expression of his eagle eye can never be erased from my memory — it was an eye, 
the expression of which we do not observe commonly amoirg mankind, but which when we do ob- 
serve it, at once commands deferential respect, for we know that it mirrors a mind of no uncommon 

Whether the conjurer's skill was of any avail in its curative effects I know not, but the chiers 
wound appeared to grow easy-, and he irow addressed inquiries to those around him, but seldom 
spoke except in monosyllables. Towards iroon the partial paralysis which immediately succeeds a; 
gunshot wound pa.ised off, and the natural vigor and healthiness of his system appeared to influence 
the wound, which already gave symptoms of healing, and he, for the first time, addressed a conver- 
sation to one of his warriors, who suddenly arose, and led me before the chief, who interrogated me 
by means of a warrior, who spoke almost unintelligible English. In an Indian's estimation of cha- 
racter, bravery is the greatest virtue a man can possess, and towards one possessing this quality they 
show respect. This much of the Indian character I was aware of, aud determined to act accordingly- 
, " Who is that other warrior — a brother]" said the chief. 

" He is, and is worthy of it," said I, steraly. 

SH burton's gentleman's magazine. 

-« So lie is," said the chief. " Was it your brother who has killed so many of my warriors lately 1" 
■" It was." 

« And what did you do it for 1" 

^*Sevenge!" said I, speaking through my teeth, for my hot blood had again began to boil, as I 
tSaought of the injury I had sustained, for which the blood of the whole tribe could not atone. 
•" For what injury did you seek revenge 7" said the chief, after some moment's musing. 
■*'■ For the murder of my wife and child, and burning of my property." 
-"' Ah, was it your house which was burnt V 
^' It was." 

^< Then you were in the right for seeking revenge." He then raised up and spoke for some time 
isa athundering voice to his warriors, who stood mute and immoveable. I could not understand all 
tissaid, but part of it I shall never forget. He spoke with energy, and used his arm with a graceful 
ssssvement, which would have shamed many a studied orator of the present day. His speech had its 
lE&cis; he shamed them for wanting to take the life of one whose deeds had made them Jremble. 
^^JSoS" said he," if you would have the blood of one who is as brave as the bravest of you, you can 
lasTO it, but you shall fight him single handed." A young warrior now sprang to his feet, and taking 
mm i»y the shoulder, turned me around, and pointing with his finger towards the south, said " go," 
te which the rest assented by nodding their heads. I possessed a knife of beautiful workmanship, 
■wMch was similar to the modem " bowie knife." This knife which, with my other arms, was now 
^<wen to me, I took by the blade and offered to the chief, as a token of remembrance ; he declined 
SE&5 present. I drew from my vest pocket a small pen-knife, and earnestly pressed it upon him, which 
^® 3rec6ived with reluctance, and then shaking him cordially by the hand, and then the other warriors 
a34emately — many of whom scowled at me with evident hatred, yet shook the proffered hand with a 
■WHtMng grin — I slowly departed. This incident made a greater impression upon me in favor of the 
Indians, than all the logic in Christendom, and very probably had it not been for the incident which 
follows, I should have never again attempted the life of an Indian. 

By the situation of the sun when I left the Indians, it was about three o'clock. I continued my 
<oourse for the Miami river, with the intention of steering straight for Cincinnati, to bear the sorrow- 
M tidings of Girty's death, who I did not doubt, had been killed at the time I was taken prisoner. 
Jt was about one hour after this, as I was plodding my way through the hazel bushes, that I heard a 
■cracking some distance ahead of me. I started at beholding four Indians, one of whom fired at me, 
l)Ut missed his aim. I immediately raised my gun and shot him dead. The others rushed upon me 
"with their tomahawks uplifted, when a shot just behind made me start, thinking others were attack- 
ing me in the rear; but my joy knew no bounds at beholding Tom Girty spring from the bushes, and 
<ciubbing his gun, we rushed upon them, and fought with desperation. Two of the Indians opposed 
•Girty, while one attacked me with a fury which I could not at first resist, but finally his strength 
l)egan to fail beneath such severe exertion, when I drew my bowie knife, and began to use it to some 
jpurpose. The Indian threw his tomahawk, which fortunately struck the blade of my knife, and broke 
tt to pieces ; I watched his motions, and observing that he intended stooping, I threw my hatchet 
low, and nearly severed his wrist. The fellow was mad with passion, and soon gave me an oppor- 
Ktoiity to knock him down, but not till I had received a severe gash in the side from his luiife. I 
aaew had time to see what my companion was about. 

One Indian lay dead near him with his head mangled with the butt of his gun, and the same small 
saaan who had conjured the chief's wound, was yelling most sonorously, and brandishing his toma- 
Isawk at Girty, who was walking around him, watching for an opportunity " lo tie him," as he said. 
Tile Indian appeared unwilling to risk a throw, but kept his eye on Girty, who now seized his gun 
=and clubbing it began to wield it with giant energy. The Indian still brandished his instrument and 
smi rapidly backwards, undecided whether to throw, when he fell over a log flat upon his back. Girty 
leaped upon his breast with both feet, and deprived him for some moments, of breath. We tied his 
Jiands behind with a handkerchief. It is beyond the power of words to express the emotions which 
swelled my breast at this time. All had ended well ! and a fatalist might here find an argument for 
Ms hypothetical doctrine, for the hand of providence appeared to interfere twice, when I expected the 
summons of the grim monster ; still I cared but little whether I lived or not, for I had lost in Thomas 
Crirty all which appeared to me worth living for ; but at this moment — when I beheld death staring 
3XIB in the face — to behold my friend resuscitated as from the dead, and the7i to gain a signal victory 
<over the men (who deserved nothing better for their baseness in disobeying the orders of their chief, 
aad striving to take the life of one whom they had set at liberty) — these rapid transitions from de- 
:sp©xidency to joy, almost made a woman of me, and I caught my friend around the neck and kissed 
Mm — so elated was I at beholding him again. This is no romance, reader, but stern reality ; there 
■■me times when we must weep, and when we must be joyful ; when our minds, like an J^olian harp 
sare grave or acute, as the winds of prosperity or of adversity brush over them, and these are often es 
''variable, and as subject to as sudden mutations, as the external tempests. 

After our mutual joy had somewhat subsided, we deliberated upon the fate of our captive, who sat 
sBspEH a log in a surly mood, and apparently caring little about his approaching fate. I was urgent 
-fe shooting the man whose perfidy had nearly cost me my life, but Girty took the side of humanity, 


and declaied that brave men should not be guilty of murdering a priaoncr in cold blood. At length 
we hung his life " on the cast of a die ;" we agreed to shoot at a target at tlie distance of fifty yards ; 
if Girty won, the prisoner lived and vice versa. We cut a small round target of a bullet patch, and 
cleaned out our guns, to decide the fate of a human being. The Indian now appeared to be aware of 
what we intended doing, and with an earnestness — which was plainly shown, despite his efforts to 
conceal it — he watched our shots. I took the first shot and my ball struclc the outer edge of the tar- 
get — it loas an excellent shot. The Indian's countenance plainly indicated the feelings which work- 
ed within ; he gazed upon the ball hole with a stare in which despair might be plainly depicted ; that 
look could not be exactly described ; few persons could have then looked upon that man and not been 
moved with compassion ; but ray heart had been rendered callous by repeated injuries received of the 
Indians, and the eight of one drove me almost mad ; there was not a pang of compassion in my breast, 
for the agonized feelings which I knew tortured that man ; on the contrary I strived as much as pos- 
sible to procrastinate Girty's time to shoot, merely to prolong the Indian's feeUngs. A painter could 
have delineated eagerness and hope with happy effect, by observing his countenance during the time 
Girty was sighting at the mark; he leaned forward with his hands upon his knees, and with lips 
partly unclosed and strained eyes ; and the veins of his face appeared ready to burst with the intensity 
of his feelings. Girty sighted a long time, which proved he was striving all he could to save the 
poor man's life. The rifle cracked, and the bullet tore out the centre of the target. Girty yelled 
till the echo resounded among the trees, and the Indian sprang upon his feet, while a broad smile 
spread over his face. Girty untied his hands, and he slowly retired, but after going some yards, he 
letumed and extended his hand in gratitude to Girty, who shook it affectionately ; he then extended 
it to me, but I threw it from me with disdain — I was in no humoi for congratulating him upon his 
escape from death. 

"Indian no forget 'em," said the Indian to Girty. 

'• Your false heart contains no gratitude," I thundered out, " and ere to-morrow's sun rises, you and 
your companions will have, perhaps, attempted the life of him who saved yours." He shook hiss 
head and striking his breast with energy, drew his form to its greatest height, as he exclaimed again 
'' no forget 'em." Girty bade him depart, which he did in somewhat faster time than before. 

It is durmg our young days when we are in the vigor of life, and when no " compunctious 
visitings of conscience" trouble us, that we are less subject to the operations of the moral faculties. 
Our minds are then buoyant and elastic, and are incapable of retaining impressions for any length of 
time ; but when we arrive to the " sear and yellow leaf" — when we have passed over the boisterous 
spring and summer when our lives are a continual series of tempests and calms, — and settled into the 
mild and thoughtful autumn, 'tis then we think and not before. Youth is no time to think, and old 
persons err when they expect to see autumn before the stormy spring has passed — if these scenes 
were now to be acted over again I might be prompted to act with moie compassion to my fellow men, 
for I am now an old man. J. M. S. 

Dayton, May 2lstj 1839. 


BI THOMAS DUNK E "f (J L I S H , M. D., F H I I. A 

Though the friends of our childhood are with us no moie. 

Yet the thought of their virtues remains in our heart ; 
Enshrined like a holy thing deep in its core, 

Fixed firmly, and of our existence a part. 
And cursed be the man that would chase it away, 

And seek in some other illusion to live ; 
Oh ! where could he sports find, no matter how gay, 

That joy, like the thought of past friendsliip, can give. 

Hence, hence with your mirth, and come banquet with me 

On the memory of ties that are long rent and gone ; 
On the joys, being fled, we no longer may see ; 

On the visions of happiness far away flown. 
Think sadly, yet kindly, on feelings of yore, 

The ties, though now broken, which bound us in youth ; 
When we thought, it is sad we may think so no more, 

The world was a heaven of honor and truth. 





The following accounts of this remarkable lake, which lies between the 48° and 49° north latitude, 
are extracted from a journey in the south of Russia, performed by Dr. Tauscher, in the years 1807 
to 1811. Hitherto, we were indebted to tlie celebrated naturalist Pallas, for the only accounts we 
had of this salt-lake, which has many peculiar natural productions. He visited it on his first great 
tour through Asiatic Russia, in the years 176.3 to 1769. As no naturalist has since explored that 
interesting country, and the accounts given by Pallas are short and incomplete; and as Dr. Tau- 
scher's journey in these inhospitable tracts was accompanied with circumstances calculated to excite 
general interest, a short sketch of it uill certainly be welcome here. 

The author prefixes to his descri[ition of the Inderlake, and the accoiuit of his tour along the 
banks of it, some general outlines of n picture of the steppes of southern Russia, as he had an op- 
portunity of observing them in the immense tiact extending between the Don, the Wolga, aird the 
Ural, and to the northern coast of the Caspian sea. 

The soutLern steppes bear a very peculiar physiognomy, different from the natural scenery of 
European countries. The eye is lost in immense plains, but seldom broken by an inconsiderable 
eminence, which are without trees or forests, poor in rivers and water, destitute of permanent habi- 
tations, villages or towns and perpetually traversed by nomade tribes, who live in patriarchal sim- 
plicity, and remove from place to phice with their dwellings and flocks, as circumstances require. 
These desolate plains resemble in :i ^reat measure the trackless ocean, which the iravigator must 
cross by the guidance of the compass. 

Early in the spring, and soon after the melliirg of the snow, the surface of the steppe is covered 
with a charming and peculiar vegeiation. Astragalus, tulips, hyacinths, and other fine flowering 
plants, make it appear like a gay garden. But the soft verdant carpet, which at this season adorns 
the meadows of the north and middle of Europe, is entirely unknown in these plains. Only a few 
scattered plants partially cover the ground, and larger or smaller intervals of bare soil aways remain 
visible between them. The scorching heat of the summer months, which in Juire and July often 
rises at noon to 30° and 35° Reaum, almost entirely destroys the children of Flora. All the plants 
wither, and the soil creaks under the foot of the tiaveller. At this season of tire year, the dry grass 
of the desert is frequently on fire, either by chance or design, the flame of which reddens the horizon 
by night, and by day the thick clouds of smoke obscure the sun. These fires, fanned by the wind, 
often spread with incredible rapidity, and only the interposition of a river, or a very broad road, can 
stop the progress of such a torrent of flame, which, especially in the night, affords a splendid and 
awful sight. The heat would be still more intolerable, but for a cooling east wind, which regularly 
prevails from ten or eleven o'clock in the foienoon, to three o'clock in the afternoon, and moderates 
the sultriness of the atmosphere, in the deserts situated on the Wolga and the Ural, between 45° and 
50° north latitude. But if this wind should happen to blow over parts of the desert which are on 
fire, it becomes impregnated with almost intolerable heat, and, like the Arabiair Samoom, relaxes and 
paralyses all the animal powers. Storms are not frequent in these parts, and when they occur, they 
are always inconsiderable. The thunder clouds, which, in other countries, being confined between 
the mountains, produce the severest tempests, have here so wide a range, that they cannot become 
dangerous. At no season of the year does a drop of dew spangle the parched soil of the steppe, and 
lain is very rare. The dry nitrous clay, of which the greatest part of the soil of the steppe consists, 
is rendered by the heat as hard as a rock, and clefts, a yard deep, open in its surface. In those tracts 
which are covered with quicksand, it becomes dreadfully hot, through the action of the sun's rays. 
It is singular enough, that this burning sand, in which it might be supposed that no plant could 
posBibly thrive, is distinguished from the clayey soil, by a more active and luxuriant vegetation. 


At the close of autumn, the steppe produces a peculiar Flora of remarkable saline plants, of which 
no country in the world has a greater variety than the paixhed soil of southern Russia. 

The cold in winter, according to accurate observations made in the Moia\ian colony at Sarepta 
on the Wolga, that is, between 48° and 49° north latitude, has been known to be 32° and 33° 
Reaum. Here, as at Moscow and St. Petersburg, quicksilver has been seen to freeze in the open air. 
There are probably few parts of Euiope which experience greater vicissitudes of heat and cold. 

Hills and mountains aie very uncommon in the desert itself. There are, however, in the steppe, 
between the Tlial and the Wolga, some eminences of very considerable height. These are the Mount 
Bogdo, and the rock salt mountains Tschaptschatschi and Arsagar. The first, with the salt lake of 
the same name at its foot, is extremely remarkable, because it incontcstibly rose formerly as a dis- 
tinct island, above the ancient level of the sea. Its base, which is of granite, bears evident traces of 
this fact. Tschaptschatschi and Arsagar, which aie situated more to the south, are not less worthy 
of notice. They consist of large solid masses of the valuable rock salt, which is not inferior to that 
found at Wieliezka in Poland, and at Ilezk in Orenburg ; though, on account of the remote distance, 
and the difficulty of conveyance, hardly any use is made of it. It likewise difiers from the salt last 
mentioned, in forming a mountain of considerable height ; whereas the other is found in strata under 
ground, and must be obtained by the operation of mining. 

As the author's object, the salt lake Inder, was beyond the Ural line, and consequently out of the 
Russian boundaries, on the other side of the river, he chose the nearest post to make preparations 
for undertaking, with safety, an excursion to the Kirghis steppe on the other side. This was the 
fore-post of Inderskoe, seven hundred versts below Orenburg, from which the salt lake is sixty versts 
distant, in a direct line towards the east. Dr. Tauscher arrived there in the beginning of May, 1810, 
having been Uberally furnished with the necessaiy orders and assistance for this expedition, at Oren- 
burg, by the governor-general, prince Wolchonskoi, 

He had only two travelling companions, namely, Mr, Hermann, a clergyman from Kasan, a young 
man full of zeal for the study of natural history, who was of great assistance, especially in his botani- 
cal researches ; and a servant, Jacob Judizky, who was a skilful huntsman, and in the sequel pro- 
cured for his master many rare and beautiful birds. 

The fore-post of Inderskoe, or Gorskoe Kre-post, is situated immediately on the bank of the river 
Ural, and is one of the most inconsiderable places of the lower Ural line. It consists of only forty 
or fifty dwellings, inhabited by about as many Cossack families, commanded by an ofhcer of inferior 
rank, without any fortification, and merely surrounded with narrow ditches and a wicker fence. 

The environs consist of a barren, dry clay desert, on the soil of which there are neither stones nor 
trees. It is only in the low grounds near the river, which are covered during the inundation, that 
willows and poplars are met with, and also some peculiar species of trees which thrive in this climate. 
Neither hay nor corn are giown in this arid country. Some spots, here and there, are cultivated as 
gardens. They have melons, water-melons, and other vegetable productions, especially in such places 
as are covered by the water during the periodical inundation of the river. The mud which it leaves 
behind, like the Nile, produces in the sequel a rapid and luxuriant vegetation, 

A violent attack of fever, of which the author had already felt some symptoms, as he passed 
through Orenburg, increased so much as to render it impossible for him immediately to visit the lake 
on the other side, which was sixty versts distant. A favorable opportunity, however, occurred to send 
his companion Hermann. 

The inhabitants of the neighboring posts receive permission several times in the year to get salt 
for their use from the lake. They always go in great numbers, well armed, and with every military 
precaution, to avoid the hostile attacks of the plundering Kirghis, who attempt on these occasions to 
seize and carry off people and horses. On the second day after the arrival of our travellers, such a 
caravan set out to procure salt, and Hermann was able to go to the lake with perfect safety under 
their protection. He returned from the opposite shore on the third day, quite enraptured with the 
wonderful place he had seen, and the curiosities of the dominion of Floia which he had found. 

The fever, however, which regularly returned every other day, enfeebled Dr, Tauscher so much, 
that he was scarcely able to leave the room, or even his bed, on the intermediate days, Hermann, 
however, daily made longer or shorter excursions in the neighboring country. It unfortunately 
happened, that, among the medicines which they had the precaution to bring with them from Mos- 
cow, there was no Peiuvian bark ; and there being neither medicine nor physician at Inderskoe, he 
was obliged to send for some Peruvian bark to Uralsk, two hundred miles distant, where there was 
a regimental surgeon, and a laboratory belonging to the governnrent. His health gradually improved 
after he had taken this medicine, and, on the 20th of May, he found himself sufiSciently recovered to 
venture upon the expedition to the opposite bank. 

As a protection from the predatory Kirghis, prince Wolchonskoi had ordered an escort of two 
hundred men and one cannon. These people were collected from several neighboring posts of the 
hne, and had already been some days at Inderskoe, 

The author's plan was to spend three days at the least on the banks of the lake, and, if possible, 
to go quite round it ; in order to form a complete idea of its extent and nature, its remarkable envi- 
rons and productions. 

94 burton's gentle 31 a n's magazine. 

A large tent for hinipelf, a new and clean kibitke, belonging to the officer who accompanied him, 
a light carriage to convey the paper necessary to preserve the plants and other requisites, and, in case 
of need, himself and his companions, were the principal articles which he took with him. 

The 22nd of Maj' was fixed for the long desired accomplishment of this plan. The preparations 
for crossing the river, which were directed by the commandant of Inderskoe, could not be carried on 
so rapidly as the impatience of the travellers desired. The river is half as broad again as the Elbe 
at Dresden, deep, but not rapid. There was only one pretty large boat to convey the carriages and 
other effects, successively, to the opposite bank. The Cossacks swam over the river, with their 
horses. This operation seems not to be without danger, and proves the courage of this intrepid race, 
who are very familiar with this element. The Cossack, who intends to cross a river, drives his horse 
into it, plunges in after him, and swims through the stream with him, with the aid of his left arm, 
holding the bridle with his right hand, which he lays on the horse's back. Only the heads of the 
man and the horse remain above the water. It was a singular circumstance to see a carriage, with 
the horses to it, swim over the river. A Cossack, placed like Neptune, in the front of the carriage, 
guided the frail vehicle through the stream, flourishing a knute instead of the trident. 

Their passage was completed in a few hours, and every thing safely landed on the left bank. The 
author now amused himself in examining his company. The whole had a motley appearance. It 
was a medley of several nations, which, besides the proper Ural Cossacks, consisted of Calmucks, 
Tartars, Khghis, etc.; rude sun-burnt countenances, more noble Tartar manly features, and flat Mon- 
gol effeminate countenances, with beardless chins, small sunken eyes, and high cheek-bones ; some 
covered with cloaks made of sheeps' skin, with the rough side outwards ; some in tanned horse-hides, 
some in short fur cloaks with hoods, and a few in a light dress and a shirt ; the head covered with a 
large fox-skin cap, or with a conical felt hat, or without any covering. 

Their arms were no less diffeient than their costume. The smallest number had fire-arms, some 
only a single pistol, most of them pikes, others bows and arrows ; and several only a sabre, and 
others again none. Such was the appearance of the soldiers of the Ural, who came to protect our 
travellers fiom their hereditary and frontier enemies, the Asiatic Kirghis, on whose territory they ia 
fact were, 

A troop of Kirghis, in eight or ten tents, whom they found on the other side of the river, though 
they were said to be of the Russian party, were ordered to take down their dwellings and depart with 
then herds farther into the steppe, because the officer, who accompanied the author, judged it un- 
advisable to have these equivocal friends in the rear. 

The company now proceeded in an easterly direction : but this was done without much regularity. 
The escort dispersed, and each took his own way. Even the cannon was at one time so far off, that 
the author lost sight of it, and it might easily have been taken by the Kirghis, who were said to be 
so formidable. 

Dr. Tauschcr thought of remedying this confusion as well as he could; ordered the cannon to be 
near his carriage, and, after a march of five or six hours, reached the first watering place, a small 
lake of good water, where they halted. 

In a few hours they set out again, because the author wished to reach in the same day the vicinity 
of the lake, which was still twenty miles distant. 

The ground from this place rose to a gentle eminence, and became of a different quality. Whereas 
it was before sandy, not wholly destitute of water, and covered with a pretty luxuriant vegetation ; 
it was now dry and clayey. Here and there gypsum-like stones stood out, and the vegetation was 
less fresh. Several of the plants which Hermann had found on his first visit to the lake, were met 
with here, such as the beautiful Orohanche, with light blue flowers. Allium Caspium Pall., Allium 
inderiense, n. sp. and a small Tetradynatnist, with the boat-shaped seed vessels allied to the genus 
Bunias, which plant was afterwards designated as a new genus, and called by the author's name. 

Towards evening they reached their journey's end, namely, some ditches, about a verst from the 
lake, with brackish, but yet drinkable water. Here the travellers pitched their camp, planted the 
cannon, and placed posts on the surrounding eminences to prevent surprise. The visit to the lake 
was deferred to the following da)''. 

From the place where the company were encamped, the banks of the lake gradually shelved off 
towards the east, and the white salt surface of the lake shone from this side like new fallen snow. 
The lake is of the form of a long ellipse, and its circumference may be about twenty miles. It is sur- 
rounded on three sides by a row of hills, the interior of which, towards the lake, is exposed by the 
fall of the earth, and consists of strata of clay of different colors. The water of the lake, which in no 
season of the year, and in no place, exceeds a yard in depth, was now almost entirely evaporated. 
The whole superficies of the lake consisted of one mass of the most beautiful and pure crystals of sea 
salt, rivalling the snow in whiteness, without a perceptible mixture of glauber salt, and, at some depth, 
gradually passed into a mass not unlike rock salt. 

In some places, springs from the bottom of the lake had worked their way through the solid mass 
to the surface, forming perpendicular openings of considerable depth, so that the long pikes of the 
Cossacks could not reach the bottom. The quantity of the salt, thus wonderfully prepared by nature, 
is so great, that it might, perhaps, supply all Europe, if the geographical situation of the lake were 


favorable to it. As a new layer of salt is produced every year on the surface, like the annual growth 
of trees, there would be no fear that this repositoiy would ever be exhausted. 

It was, indeed, part of the author's plan to make the tour of the whole lake, and thus obtain a 
complete knowledge of its situation, and the peculiar productions of its ■vicinity ; but the commanding 
officer of his escort assured him that this could not be done without exposing themselves to the dan- 
ger of an attack from the Kirghis. He, therefore, contented himself with exploring half the right side 
of the lake with a small escort, sending his companion Hermann to do the same on the left bank, 
which is the most difficult of access. 

Even Pallas says, that he had obtained from the brine a number of insects in good preservation ; 
Dr. Tauscher also enriched his collections from the same source, with many rare and beautiful kinds 
of beetle. Our travellers did not find, in these parts, the rare and dangerous venomous spider of 
southern Russia, which Pallas says he found swimming uninjured in the salt waters. It is remark- 
able that he found in the brine, in very great numbers, several species of insects, which he very 
seldom found in the steppe itself. This was the case, for instance, with the Calandra picea, Pall., 
which he saw alive, by thousands, in the salt water. Among the few kinds which he caught in the 
desert, the very scarce Myocellata, Pall, gave him much pleasure, though he found only a single 

His collection of plants was richer and more important. The saline plants were not advanced 
enough for him to make any remark upon them. The origin of the lake may be explained in a 
plausible manner, from its situation and the nature of its environs. The plateau called the Inder 
Mountain, elevated above the river and the surrounding steppe, is from two to three hundred versts 
in circumference, and is traversed in the middle by the river Ural. The soil, particularly that part of 
the plateau beyond the river, consists of rock salt, which is covered with a stone resembling alabaster. 

The lake owes its origin to subterraneous springs, which penetrated through the solid mass of rock 
salt, and found a vent in the funnel-shaped hollow of the rock. The water proceeding from the melt- 
ing of the snow in spring, which collects in the deeper part of the lake, perhaps also contributes. 

Here, too, the pretty general law of nature is confirmed, according to which alabaster or gypsum 
is usually found near masses of salt. This, as here, is the case at Ilesk, near Orenburg ; in the rock 
salt mountains of Arsagar and Tschaptschatschi ; in the Volga and Ural steppe ; and in the rock salt 
works at Wieliezka in Poland. As we have already stated, it was Dr. Tauscher's intention to spend 
three days in examining the lake and its environs : circumstances induced him to shorten this period. 
The commanding officer reported to him that he had been informed by Kirghis spies, who were of 
the party of the Russians, that a troop of four hundred Kirghis had assembled a feiv leagues distant, 
and threatened the company with an attack. In the second night, the fore posts stationed round the 
camp were, in fact, disturbed by a party of Kirghis, who, however, departed when they found them 

He was by no means disposed to engage, without need, in contests with these marauders: besides, 
he had entirely attained the object he had proposed ; he therefore judged it best to return to the op- 
posite bank, and, early on the morning of the third day, surrounded by his escort, carried his resolu- 
tion into effect. As they approached the watering place, half way on the road, where they halted 
when they came, the author saw a number of people, of strange appearance, encamped near it. They 
were surprised at this, because, at their previous visit, they had not seen a human being. On in- 
quiry. Dr. Tauscher learnt that a Kiighis sultan, or nobleman, was about to occupy with his troops 
the inclosed market-place at Orenburg. The sultan, on his side, had inquired of our author's escort, 
who he was; and, on being informed, amicably offered him his hand, and invited him, in the Tartar 
language, which his companion interpreted, to pass the night in his tent. Notwithstanding our 
author's great desire to accept this proposal, he judged it best to return, without delay, to the fort on 
the other bank, in order to dry the plants which he had collected. 

He continued his route to the opposite bank, but was followed by the court chaplain of the Kirghis 
sultan, who offered to remain as a hostage in the fort, till Dr. Tauscher should have arrived on the 
other side of the river. For the reasons above mentioned, the Doctor sent him also back ; and leamt, 
in the sequel, how fortunate it was that he did so. In the same night that the Kirghis chief hospitably 
offered him his tent, he was attacked by an hostile tribe of his own nation, and robbed of all his herds 
of horses, camels, and sheep. Thus, the author, in all probability, escaped the misfortune of being 
carried as a slave into the interior of Asia, to Chiva or Bucharia. 


1. A prudent man will avoid whatever gives occasion for remark ; for whatever is talked of 
much, will be talked of unfavorably. 

2. The most generous man, in making a gift, never parts entirely with the sense of property*; 
and will be offended if, in his presence, you use the gift entirely as your own. 

3. Matters external to us, and resting in opinion, cause more vanity than those which are with- 
in us and cerftiin. Probably more pride is felt in knowing, than in being, the duke of Wellington. 

4. How many persons mistake talking about literature for literai-y talk ! 

5. Nothing is more common than for persons to suppose that they know all about an obscure 
transaction, because they know something not known to others. We know what we know, but we 
don't know what we don't know. 

6. The conclusions of morality are as certainly reached through the avenues of vice, as through 
the paths of virtue. 

7. There is often as much difference between works and their author, as between the sweet- 
ness of honey and the sting of the bee. 

8. Southey's descriptions are ivroiighf; Scott's are cast. 

9. The mind is a disease of the body. Spirit is a disease of matter. 

10. The highest wisdom of the mind is to acquiesce in doubt — to admit that the reason of a 
thing cannot be given — that a fact or its cause cannot be known. 

11. Most people's God is the reflection of their own spirit against the skies; and the comfort of 
cultivating God is the complacency of viewing that self-image. 

12. W is a Scot, exact and close — so honest that he is almost a rogue. 

13. The issues of happiness and misery, of success and failure, both in this life and that which 
is to come, seem rather to depend on the strength and weakness of the mind and temper, than on 
purity of heart and rightness of intention. There was a truer philosophy in the Roman Greek view 
which made valor virtue,* than n ouis, which makes it consist in goodness. He who surveys the 
course of life and the history of man in all their breadth and fulness, will be tempted to name pru- 
dence piety and power morality. 

14. It is dangerous to inquire too closely after what is concealed. He that gropes in a dark 
room may chance to put his fingers into something nasty. 

15. There are many men who will permit you to use them even to the baseness of contempt, 
who yet will not suffer you to take a liberty with them. Because a horse will let you ride him, it 
does not follow that you may tickle his heels. 

16. No man, whatever maj^ be his persoiial gain, ever grew solidly rich, who was not personally 

17. What is called impudence is generally either ignorance or forgetfulness. 

18. If you hear a man sincerely expressing an intense admiration of virtue, or a soul-felt appre- 
ciation of its excellence, you may be quite sure that he has not got it. 

19. There are few cases in which a gift does not cost more than a purchase. 

20. Men will generally dislike you more for placing yourself upon an equality and familiarity 
with them, when your place is above them and distant from them, than your superiors will dislike 
you for encroaching upon them, because defeat in personal rivalry is more galling than in rivalry of 

21. A bad man may possess the world ; a good man doth possess the universe. 

22. Modesty sometimes takes the air of presumption ; self-conceit more often assumes the appear- 
ance of diffidence. 

23. The passions are but various forms of mental insanity. 

24. The vices and defects of others constitute the mirror in which we should see our own fail- 

* Virtus, properly, signified manliness ,- vir, from which it was formed, was itself derived from 
vis The Greek Arete, was a cognate word to Ares, Mars, if it was not derived from it. 


No. I. 


But I must drink the vision while it lasts ; 
For even now the curling vapors rise, 
Wreatliing their cloudy coronals, to grace 
These towering summits — liidding me away ! 
But often shall mj' heart turn back again. 
Thou glorious emint nee ! and, when oppressed, 
And aching willi the coldness of the world, 
Find a sweet resting-place and home, with thee ! 

Sufus Darvei 



You may stand on the shores of Casco Bay, and see, in the sunshine of any clear day, the glit. 
taring peaks of the White Hills, with Mount Washington shooting up above all the rest, like a 
white-haired patriarch among his children, themselves hoar with age. But, as the bard of Melrose 
Abbey has so beautifully said. 

If you would view this scene aright, 
Go visit it by the pale moonlight ; 

for, even at the distance just named, when the night is clear and unclouded, and the sharp north- 
west wind has driven off even the faintest curl of vapor which sunset had illumined, you may see 
the sheen of their broken outline, (showing like the beginnings of those arrowy streaks of the au- 
rora borealis, which at times shoot up in the north so brilliantly,) as they glitter beneath the rays 
of the clear, cold moon. Such a picture, constantly before their eyes, the people of that beautiful 
little city, which lies upon the shores of the island-studded Casco, have come to look upon as one 
of the chief charms with which nature has invested their landscape ; and they show it to travellers 
as one of the memorabilia of the tour that takes in their city as a temporary resting-place. 

It was at this spot that a party of some ten or twelve of us were watching anxiously, one mid- 
summer afternoon, for the dull and heavy mass of leaden clouds which had for three days hung 
over us, dispensing plentiful showers of rain, to pass away, and release us from the tedious quaran- 
tine we were enduring, on our way to visit the White Hills of New Hampshire. At about noon, 
it had ceased to rain, and, soon after, we thought we could discern a faintly defined streak of light 
in the extreme point of the western horizon. Watching as we were, with intense anxiety, for the 
first symptom of relief from the horrible weather which so long had bound us, judge of the extent 
of our joy as we saw that line of light extending itself from west to north, and then the whole of 
the ebon mass of cloud which hung over us, lifting gradually up from the entire sweep of that ho- 
lizon ; and, as its lower edge neared the zenith, momentarily increasing the rapidity of its retreat, 
leaving a clear, azure field below, until, at length, the sun, descending to his daily rest, was left un- 
obscured, and the full gush of his rays fell, like a sudden shower of flaming gold, upon all the hills 
and valleys ! Wheeling slowly down the path of his orbit, he reached his setting, unobscured by a 
single wreath of cloud or vapor, and sank belov/ the distant snowy peaks that made oirr horizon, 
with not a ray lost to our gazing eyes. When the sky had first begun to clear, these white moun- 
tain spires had been the earliest objects in the wide extending landscape to develope themselves ; 
and never seemed they clearer or more conspicuous than then, as they stood out in almost sudden 

98 burton's gentle bian's magazine. 

and unusually bold relief, upon the western sky, with the full flood of sunlight pouring over them, 
while to us the sun was still obscured ; and, no sooner had the last level beam of the glorious orb 
shot along the loftiest of their summits, then, as if by magic, most beautiful formations of ambei 
clouds, their edges touched all along with intensely shining gold, appeared directly above the path 
he had been treading, and continued there, assuming divers grotesque shapes, and seeming to sport 
in fantastic gyrations amidst the sunlight from below, until, as twilight deepened, they all passed 
gradually away before the gentle breeze, which seemed to be sweeping oflf with its zephyrs all im- 
purity from the sky, making it beautiful for the moon and stars. Meanwhile, the bosom of the bay, 
which had received beneath it the heavy deposit of all that mighty avalanche of clouds which we 
had watched so long in its caieer, was sending back the rays of the silver queen of night, who was 
at the full, and to that quarter of the heavens did we next turn our straining gaze. Slowly ascend- 
ing to the zenith 

That orbed maiden, wjth white fire laden, 
Whom mortals call the moon, 

soon began to let fall her riys upon the yet palpably discerned panorama of distant hills — for they 
look loveliest in the clear twilight — and we retired from the scene, upon which we had for so many 
hours been gazing, leaving their snowy coronals yet visible as they were towering aloft in the still 
and solemn midnight. It was a scene never to be forgotten by one of that group, and, as may be 
fairly inferred, was looked upon as a fitting commencement of our purposed visit to the White Hills 
of the north — and so indeed it was ; for every step we took, afterwards, upon that tour, pioved 
equally memorable. 

Early on the next morning, (all our aiTangcments having been complete for two whole days,) the 
vehicles drove up to the door of our excellent landlady's hospitable mansion, and the process of 
packing ourselves and our luggage commenced. Men, women, and even children, (laigish ones — 
no sensible folk go on parties of pleasure with babies,) rods, creels, guns, and baskets — trunks, port- 
manteaus, carpet bags, and hat cases — overcoats, cloaks, upper-benjamins, and umbrellas — all were 
made away with at last, and off we sat, rather a la Gilpin — 

Ten precious souls, and all agog, 
To dash through thick and thin ! 

Leaving Portland, we passed through many pretty manufacturing and farming villages in Maine 
and New Hampshire, and stopped for the night at Conway, which is most picturesquely situated, 
being surrounded by hills, and its neighborhood abounding with woodland and river prospects, most 
delightfully attractive to such of our number as had the happiness of being skilled vvith the pencil, 
the pen, the gun, or the angle. But we were all obliged to yield some portion of our individual 
preferences, at this stage of our journey, on account of the impossibility of getting accommodations 
for the whole of us, either in the way of comfortable quarters for so many, or in that of the requi- 
site conveyances. So we contented ourselves with one night's experience of our good landlord's 
hospitality, enjoyed a fine sunrise view of the pleasant village of Coixway, and pushed on. 



We reached Bartlett after a very interesting ride of nine hours, with a full view of the whole 
White Mountain range almost constantly before us, at about two o'clok in the afternoon, and found 
ourselves quite harmonious upon one point, at least — and that was, the necessity of immediate pre- 
parations for dinner. We could not have chosen our quarters better, with this view, had we had it 
in our power to make a selection from among a thousand ; and this was all the more fortuiaate, as 
oui good hostess, Mistress Hall's, was the only " place of entertainment for man and beast" that 
sensible men and epicurean beasts would think of staying at on the whole road, from mine host 
Abbot's, at Conway, to the Crawford Cabin in the Notch. What a dinner the good lady provided 
foius ! Had I the pen of a Scott, I would essay to give the reader some notion of its details ; for 
Jhave observed that there was no topic upon which Sir Walter was wont to dwell in more loving 
detail, and with more overflowing unction, than this ; but I pretend to no such advancement in 
trencher lore as the genial poet of Abbotsford could fairly boast, and so admirably display. Suffice 
it, that we ate a most hearty and traveller-like dinner, without thinking of the lack of silver forks, 
damask napkins, finger bowls, or hot water plates. If there was no Poulet a la financiere, there 
were tender pullets, much more to our fancy ; if there was no Macaroni a I'ltalienne, there was 



the very best of home-made cider-apple sauce, which was equally acceptable to our hungry palates; 
if no Cofektles de veau santces aux fines herhes were upon our table cTJioie, we were content with 
our cutlets upon one plate, and our herbs upon another. The sauce of a good appetite we found a 
very good substitute for all the sauce fiamarde, or sauce vin Madtre,- and as to our tomatos, we en- 
joyed them all the same as, at Astor House or the Tremont, we should have done, had we seen 
them labelled sauce tomate. 

While we were taking the mid-way glass of a bottle of claret, which one of our number had 
taken the precaution to stowaway with a respectable number of individuals of the same and kindred 
families among our luggage, previous to departing from Portland, one of the ladies, who for some 
minutes had been admiring the mountainous prospect out of the western window, exclaimed " What 
a magnificent sight !" Approaching the window, we saw a mass of heavy clouds rolling and tum- 
bling about the peaks of the most distant hills, whence vivid flashes of lightning were darting spi- 
rally down into the deepest recesses of the valleys that lay between the mountains. We all rushed 
into the open air, for the sight was awfully grand, and was momentarily growing more and more so, 
as the clouds, having tumbled from peak to peak, and having dived lower and lower along the hill- 
sides, were rapidly nearing the sunny intervale, in which our hostelry was so pleasantly situated. 
At length, it burst upon us with all its fury, and soon drove us in doors, whither hastening precipi- 
tately, we called a council of our sagest men and matrons, with Mistress Hall to the fore, at which 
the questions, " Is this storm liliely to last long 1" and " Were it not better to make up our minds 
to stay here to-night 1" were discussed with much world and weather wisdom, and ability. Being 
lovers of comfort, haters of wet travelling, fond of good quarters, and contented with those we had 
fallen into, the preliminary question being unanimously decided in the affirmative, we came to the 
conclusion, nemine contrudicentc, that there, at Bartlett, in the comfortable inn of Mistress Hall, 
would we cubiculate upon that (now not remembered) night of July, one thousand eight hundred 
and thirty odd. 

Like Jupiter's on Olympus, our divan had been held over our nectar and ambrosia, and in the 
midst of thunder. The council being over, the former were removed, and the latter ceased its louder 
peals, and was heard during the remainder of the evening in distant mutterings only, as an occa- 
sional suppressed growl would spend an agreeable hour or two in redoubling its echoes among the 
thousand rocky hill-tops that loomed gloomily amid the faint flashes of the lightning. Our next 
thought was of that post-prandian repast, which we w ere just the party to enjoy most richly — tea f 
The storm had rarified the air extremely, and a brisk fire was at once the suggestion of all our feel- 
ings and the work of a moment. So we pulled down the paper hanging curtains, drew our cloth- 
covered chairs (home-made and soft) around the blazing hearth, and awaited the coming of " the 
tea things.*^' They came at last, and a meny meal had we. After which, a round game of cards, 
the whole ten of us playing — with peas representing fourpennies, to be faithfully redeemed in coin 
at the end of our sport, for our wagers. I remember winning one pea for my share of the plunder, 
and I remember, too, the rosy cheeked boy the next morning got what it was exchanged for, as he 
told me how far it was to Tom Crawford's. 

Our arrangements for the night were curious to behold. Commodious as was our inn, it had ne- 
ver contained ten sleepers, in addition to its regular tenants, before, and the most ingenious shifts 
and devices were resorted to, to bestow ourselves with some degree of comfort. The beds were all 
filled first, certain obvious considerations settling that point of precedence, of course ; and it devolv- 
ed upon the baccalaureate portion of the party to exercise their ingenuity in the fabrication of a tem- 
porary resting place. The point was settled by a skilful distribution, and workmanlike collection of 
chairs, upon which we were fourrd sleeping as quietly, when the early house bell rang in the morn- 
ng, as if we had been reposing upon the downiest feathers, or the most iricely matted mattress. 


Fair river ! in thy bright clear flow 

Of labyrinth-like water. 
Thou art an emblem of the glow 

Of beauty — the unhidden heart — 
Tire playful maziness of art 
In old Alberto's daughter. 
But when within thy wave she looks, 
(Which glistens then and trembles,) 

Why then the prettiest of hrooks 
Her worshipper resembles. 

For in my heart — as in thy stream— 
Her image deeply lies — 

The heart which trembles at the bean^ 
The scrutiny of her eyes. 



Mankind are often ti-onbled with a vice 
Which leads to error, aud is called Prejudice. 

OifCE on a time, the manager 

Of a laige theatre in a neighboring town, 

Which had run down, 

Whilst trusting solely to the histrionic art ; 

By way of giving it a start, 

Thought best, if possible, to make a stir ; 

And much to every body's satisfaction, 

Bills were stuck up on all the walls, 

And laige red staring capitals 

Gave notice of a wonderful attraction, 

A sort of spectacle, which ne'er had been. 

Which never was and never should be seen. 

The news flew fast on every tongue. 
Night came, and to the theatre all throng. 

No vacant places ; 
Many had not the least accommodation : 
It was a general sea of human faces. 

Hushed into expectation. 
Forth came the hero of the night and bowed ; 
The audience cheered him with applauses loud. 

A man divine — 
Endowed by nature wirh such musical feeling. 
That, grunting — squealing. 
He could at will. 
As if he'd always lived on swill, 

Exactly imitate a swine. 
Sometimes he grunted with a deep bass note ; 
Then on the treble key. 
Would rise majestically. 
Just like a porker, when they cut his throat. 
The thing 
Was almost universally 
Allowed to be 

The most astonishing. 

An envious fellow, sitting in the pit. 
Felt quite indignant at this admiration ; 

He could not relish it, 

A bit. 
To see this wretched gulling of the nation. 

In truth to make such a confounded fuss 
About a porcellian imitator, 
Was a disgrace to human nature, 

And quite ridiculous. 

Soon as the noise had ceased, our man 
Rose from his seat, and thus began : 
" Ladies and gentlemen, 

I hereby public notice give, 

That if I Uve, 
To-morrow, at this self same hour, 

If with your presence you will honor me, 
You then shall see, 
In this enchanting line 
Of acting, all conceive so fine, 
A much more splendid exhibition of my power." 

Pat to the minute, 
The theatre was filled with the whole population; 
And thick as they could cram, 
A perfect jam — 
It seemed, indeed, as if near all creation 
Had crowded in it. 

Both came upon the stage, 
And first began 
The imitating man. 
Who now in fact was all the rage. 
Loud rung the claps, the theatre resounds 
As if their admiration knew no bounds. 

The other's turn next came, 

The one who envied him his hard-earned fame. 

He had a real, genuine, live pig. 

Not very big, 

So as to lie concealed beneath his gown, 

And most effectually to cheat the town, 

He every now and then would pinch the shoat, 

And without more ado, 
Produced as rich and natural a note, 

And quite as high, 
And true. 

As e'er was heard to issue from a stye. 

But 'twas no go; 
The audience hooted him with one consent : 

'Twas voted low. 

And even more. 

They all considered it a bore, 
And a most vulgar and unnatural imitation. 
In fact, they could not tell for what 'twas meant; 
While for the first. 
There was another universal burst 
Of admiration. 

Our friend perceiving 
His chance was very small 

Whilst thus deceiving; 
And giving vent at once to his indignant gall, 
Exclaimed, as loud as he could bawl, 
" A pietty set of critics are ye all, 
To applaud the mimic — hiss the original !" 
And then, to show them how they were mistaken, 
Pulled out his pig and saved his bacon. L. 




Your glorious standard launch again, 
To meet another foe I— Camp. 


The Constitution, having settled the warUke stomach of the emperor of Morocco, now proceeded 
to cruize as the flag ship of the gallant Preble, along the Barbary coast. On the 17th December, 
1803, the Enterprize being in company, she captured a Turkish ketch, called the Mastico, with 
seventy Tripolitans on board, and on the' night of the 26th, having made the coast of Tripoli, she 
stood oif and on for the morninsr. 


Who has passed through the Straits of Gibraltar and has not become perfectly familiar with the 
wind that sweeps down the Mediteiranean for days and weeks together, with unmitigated fury 1 A 
wind that acts as a prohibition to every vessel bound up the straits duiing its continuance, and 
whose cold and cheerless whistle I can imagine I hear around me at this moment. 

The Levanter is a perfect tyrant ; day after day, it sweeps down the long narrow sea, and ever 
and anon slants from the rock of Gibraltar with a resistless force, bowing to the water's edge the 
crank merchantmen that obstruct its path, and scattering the xebecs of the Moors to the cliffs and 
nooks of the Mauritanian shore. It is supposed to pioceed from the Black Sea; but whether it does, 
or does not, those who endeavor to beat against it look blank enough in all conscience. 

It was just before the hour of midnight in the Mediterranean, when a tall frigate, under close 
reefed topsails, came swiftly down before the breath of a Levanter. Hei dead-lights were in, her 
ports closed, and as she came bounding along the waves in gloomy silence, she seemed to be look- 
ing out for a harbor. 

" A dirty night, sir," said the first lieutenant to the commodore, as he came from the look-out at 
the forecastle. 

" It is," replied the latter, as he gave a scrutinizing glance at the binnacle compass. 

At this moment, the sails aloft began to shiver and flap against the masts. 

" We are headed off," said the commodore ; " call all hands !" 

" All hands !" piped the boatswain's mate, and soon every man was at his post. 

" About ship," bellowed the commodoie. 

" Station for stays," said the first lieutenant, and away flew the willing crew to execute the orders 
of their oflftcers. Soon the ship answered her helm like a thing of life, and coming on the other 
tack, dashed onward for the space of an hour without any diminution of speed. 

" Are we not near the land V said the officer of the deck to the old master, as he came growling 
out of the cabin, like a bear with a sore head. 

" Very near, sir," said the master ; " it lies under that fog bank to the southward and eastward, 
and should the wind increase any, or haul to the northward, we shall be on the rocks before eight 

" That is a great consolation, truly," said the lieutenant, as he turned to look in the direction 
pointed out by the master. 

" Breakers ahead — close aboard !" cried the look-out man from the lee cathead, . 

'• We must wear ship, sir," said the commodore, in a stern voice, as he came out of the cabin. 

102 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

" All hands wear ship !" thundered the deck truropet. 
" Put your helm up !" said the commodore. 
" Ay, ay, sir !" answered the old cunner at the wheel. 
" Shiver the after yards !" 
" Brace the head yards square !" 

" Pull cheerily, you lubbers — belay !" were the orders given in quick succession by the commo- 

" She comes up to the wind, sir," said the cunner, touching the tip of his tarpauhn, while he 
held it on to his head with his other hand. 

" Brace the after yards, and haul every thing aft !" roared the commodore, as the frigate hung for 
a moment between two mighty waves, and then plunged up the black side of the hill of waters. 

As she wore round, she passed within a short distance of the rocks, over which the heavy billows 
dashed in sheets of quivering foam, while thunder, hoarser than that of the lightning-rent heavens, 
answered in awful murmurs from the rocky caves, and mingled with the shriller notes of the in- 
creasing gale. 

The shore was hid in the dark wings of the storm, and naught was seen but the dreadful break- 
ers, whose spray fell hke a shower of winter rain upon the trembling deck of the gallant ship. It 
was a fearful moment ; a fathom nearer in, and the shrieks of five hundred drowning victims would 
have gone up amid the roar of the gale to the God of nature, while ten thousand fragments of the 
wreck would have strewn that benighted and bloody coast. 

Firm as a rock, stood the gallant Preble and his noble crew, and as the frigate rode by on the top 
of the crested wave, he saw she headed off from the shore. 

" She has cleared them !" said he, in a thrilling voice. " Pipe down, sir !" and immediately left 
the deck. 

Commodores must never show their feelings before their crews ; they must be firm amid the dan- 
gers of the contending elements, as well as amid the iron rain of battle ; but when they have reach- 
ed their cabins, they may return thanks to the God of battles and the king of storms, without inter- 
fering with the rules and regulations of the sea service. Commodore Preble was one of the bravest, 
and, at the same time, strictest officers in the service, and his character is now held up as a model 
to the aspirant for naval glory. 

" Eight bells !" cried the orderly stationed at the cabin door, as he popped his head over the rail- 
ing of the companion-way. 

" Eight bells !" echoed the quarter master at the binnacle, and eight bells were struck by the mes- 
senger boy at the galley. The master looked at the first lieutenant with a grin of satisfaction, and 
soon the two took a pull of half and-half, in honor of the skill of their commander. 

" I say. Jack, ain't you dry V said a jolly tar, to his messmate, as he rolled a quid of old Nip- 
cheese poison, of the size of a young tree toad, from the larboard to the starboard side of his face. 
" My eyes, I are/" said the party addressed ; " I feel as though I had swallowed the cook, galley, 
coals, and all !" 

" Splice the main brace, sir !" said the commodore, to the lieutenant of the watch, as he mounted 
the horse-block, and gave a last look towards the breakers, whose dying thunder and awful hissing 
fell upon his ear. 

The I ufile of a drum was now heard amid the howling of the gale, and soon busy feet were seen 
moving towards the red bull, near the scuttle butt. Tin pots of old Jamaica were now turned bot- 
tom side up, and Jack was ready to take another graze by the breakers ; " though," as one of them 
said, while he hitched up his lee waistband, " if he could have his own way, he would prefer a cou- 
ple of fathoms more of sea room, and not quite so much wind." 

The storm now began to abate, a light stripe extended along the eastern horizon, and when the 
day dawned, the blooming shores of Sicily were seen about ten miles off, bathed in the purple tints 
of an eastern morning. 

The commodore, finding the ship had stretched her rigging by her heavy plunges, and that seve- 
ral spars had been sprung by the force of the gale, put his helm up, and ran for Syracuse. At nine 
o'clock, he came to an anchor beneath the snow- clad summit of Etna, and saluted the Neopolitan 
flag with twenty-one guns. The Levanter was now at an end ; countless merchantmen came up, 
upon the breath of the balmy west wind^ and stretched along the Italian coast, while the flags of 
every nation waved in the breeze, and glittered in the sunbeam. 


On the 26th of July, 1804, commodore Preble, in the Constitution, in company with three brigs, 
three schooners, two bombs, and six gun boats, appeared off Tripoli, and proceeded to make the ne- 
cessary arrangements for bombarding that nest of troublesome pirates. 

The frigate PhiladelpTria, captain William Bainbridge, which run npon the rocks <^ the m«lle of 


the harbor, in the latter part of the previous year, had been destroyed in a most gallant manner by 
Decatur and his intrepid band, whose names, had they lived in the glorious days of Sparta, would 
have been traced upon the poitals of the temple of fame, and whose statues would have been raised 
beside the heroes of Thermopyte, in the brazen temple of Mars. The fame of Morris, whose foot 
first trod the crowded deck of the Philadelphia, and of many others who acquired the title of heroes 
in that war, may well be cherished by evevy true-hearted American ; but alas ! " the days of chivalry 
are over,'' the brave men, now high in rank, who bearded the Turk in his den and set the captive 
free, who beat about the shores of cruelty and bloody despotism, and spilled their own blood like 
water, in the defence of the honor of their native country, are begrudged the miserable pensions at 
last allowed them by the talking Solons of the land. 

Even the old Constitution herself is considered by many of the present day to be unfashionable", 
and the good old arrangements of former days are made to give way to hurricane houses, water sails, 
heavy masts, forecastle guns, raised decks, and spritsail jards ; her white streak runs in a bow, and 
isingglass windows mark hei quarter galleries, through which those only can see whose gimblet- 
eyed vision would penetrate a millstone. 

The destruction of the Philadelphia amid the gloom of night had taught the Tripolitans to fear 
the navy of the young republic. The yell of the drowning Mussulmen — the thunder of the Phila- 
delphia's cannon as they were exploded by the wreathing flames — the crackling of the old hull a^ 
it belched forth its gathered torrents of fire and smoke, and the hell-like explosion as the magazine 
ignited and sent the countless masses of that unfortunate wreck high amid the murky heavens, still 
rang upon then ears, and filled their breasts with terror. 

Tripoli, however, was a city well walled, protected by batteries judiciously constructed, mounting 
one hundred and fifteen pieces of heavy cannon, and defended by twenty-five thousand Arabs and 
Turks. The harbor was protected by nineteen gun-boats, two galleys, two schooners of eight guns 
and a brig mounting ten guns, which were ranged in order of battle, at secure moorings, inside of a 
long range of rocks and shoals, extending more than two miles to the eastward of the town. These 
shoals protected the enemy from the northern gales, and rendered it impossible for a frigate to ap- 
proach near enough to destroy them. Each gun-boat mounted a heavy eighteen, or twenty-six 
pounder in the bow, and two brass howitzers on the quarters, and carried from thirty-six to fifty men. 
The galleys had each one hundred men, and the schooners and brigs were '^"'nn°':'^"-!'hfi same 

The weather continued unfavorable until the 28th, when the fleet stood in ; but just as the Con- 
stitution anchored, a sudden change made it necessary for them to retire, and swiftly they dashed 
along that rocky shore before the breath of a terrific gale. This gale continued until the 31st, when 
it blew away the Constitution's foresail and close-reefed maintopsail, and had the sea risen in pro- 
portion to the wind, the gunboats and bombs would have been carried down to the charnel house of 
the mariner. 

On the 3d of August, at noon, the commodore, having formed his plan of attack, made signal for 
the different commanders to come withm hail. After communicating his orders to them, he wore 
ship, and stood in for the batteries. At half-past two, he made the general signal for battle. In an 
instant, the enemy's shipping and batteries opened a tremendous fire, which was promptly returned 
within grape shot distance. Several times the Constitution was within two cables' length of the 
rocks, and within three of their batteries. Every battery was silenced so long as the frigate's broad- 
side bore upon them, but as often as she passed by, they were reanimated, and a constant heavy fire 
kept up upon her. At this time, in sheering and tacking, the gallant commodore felt most sensibly 
the want of another frigate. 

At half past four, the wind inclining to the northward, signal w^as made to retire from the batter- 
ies, which was done under cover of the Constitution's heavy cannon. For two hours this noble 
frigate stood the close fire of the batteries, and the only damages received by her were a wound fromt 
a twenty-four pound shot in her mainmast, thirty feet from the deck, the loss of her mainroyal sail 
and yard, which were shot av/ay, and the dismounting of a quarter-deck gun by a thirty-two' pound 
shot, which at the same time shattered a marine's arm. 

Thus came out, under the protecting wing of our favorite, the gallant squadron, at the hour of 
sunset, from before Tripoli, and, in the words of the brave commander, we must impute their get- 
ting off so well to their having kept so near the batteries of the enemy, and to their having annoyed 
them so excessively with their grape shot. 

On the 5th August, the squadron was at anchor about two leagues north from the city of Tripoli,, 
while the Argus was in chase of a small vessel to the westward, which she soon came up with, and 
brought within hail. She proved to be a French privateer, of four guns, which put into Tripoli a 
few days previous for water, and had left it that morning. Commodore Preble prevailed upon the 
captain, for a con-sid-er-a-tion, to return to Tripoli, for the purpose of landing fourteen very badly 
wounded Tripolitans, whom he put on board his vessel, with a letter to the prime minister, leaving 
it at the option of the bashaw to reciprocate so generous a mode of conducting the war. On the 
7th of August, the Frenchman returned to the Constitution, and brought commodore Preble a let- 
ter from the French consul, in which he observed that the attack of the 3d instant had disposed the 

TOL. V. NO. II. E 1 

104 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

bashaw to accept of reasonable teims, and invited him to send a boat to the rocks with a flag of 
truce, which the commodore declined, as the white flag was not hoisted at the bashaw's castle. 

At 9, A. M., with a very light breeze from the eastward, and a strong current, which obliged the 
Constitution to remain at anchor, the commodore made the signal for the light vessels to weigh, and 
the gun and bomb-boats to cast off and stand in shore, towards the western batteries, the prize boats 
having been completely fitted for service, and the command of them given to lieutenants Crane, of 
the Vixen, Thorn, of the Enteiprize, and Caldwell, of the Syren. The whole advanced with sails 
and oars. 

At half past one, with a breeze from north north-east, Old Ironsides (for she received her soh'i- 
quet in this bombardment) weighed and stood in for the town, but the wind being on shore, made 
it imprudent to engage the batteries with the ship, as, in case of a mast being shot away, the loss of 
the vessel would probably ensue, unless a change of wind should favor her retreat. 

On the 28th, the Constitution approached the harbor. Fort English, the bashaw's castle, and the 
Crown and Mole batteries, kept up a heavy fire upon her as she advanced. At half-past five, she 
was within two cables' lengths of the rocks, and commenced a heavy fire of round and grape on 
thirteen of the enemy's gunboats and galleys, which were in pretty close action with the guirboats 
of the squadron. She sank one of the enemy's gunboats ; at the same time, two more, that had been 
disabled, ran on shore to avoid sinking ; the remainder immediatelj' retreated. 

The old ship still continued running in until within musket shot of the Crown and Mole batteries, 
when she brought to, and fired upwards of three hundred round shot, besides grape and cannister, 
into the town, the bashaw's castle and batteries, silencing the castle and two of the batteries for some 
time. In all this unprecedented exposvue to the deadly aim of a land battery, the frigate was only 
injured in her sails and rigging — her hull being but slightly peppered with grape shot. 

On the 3d, the Constitution, to draw oft" the enemy's attention from the gunboats, ran within 
them. She brought to within reach of grape, and fired eleven broadsides into the bashaw's castle, 
town and batteries, m a situation where more than seventy guns could bear upon her. 

She did not get out scatheless from this fight ; her maintopsail was totally disabled by a shell from 
the batteries which cut away the leach rope, and several cloths of the sail. Another shell went 
through the foretopsail, and one through the jib. All her sails were considerably cut and her run- 
ning rif"- ' -' "erv v;.>* ^i injured, but still no shot was received in the hull. 

Iiiub ended the Constitution's services before Tripoli for the season ; and, if ever a vessel earned 
a name, she earned the one which we have used in our title-page. 

" During this attack, a thirty-two pound ball from the (Constitution passed through the wall in the 
apartment of the prison where captain Bainbridge was sleeping, struck against the opposite wall, 
rebounded, and in its fall took part of the bed-clothes from him, and passed within a few inches of 
his body. In its passage through the first wall it knocked out a cart-load of stone and mortar, un- 
der which captain Bainbridge was buried until the officers relieved him. He was considerably bruis- 
ed by the rubbish, and received a cut in the right ankle which occasioned a lameness for months."* 

What must have been the feelings of Bainbridge, Porter, Jones, etc., as they lay within their 
gloomy prison-house and heard the thunder of their country's cannon dying amid the fastrresses of 
Barbaiy, and felt the rubbish rattling upon their heads, as the iron messengers of vengeance came 
sweeping through the massive walls with the swiftness of the lightning's flash ! 

This series of bombardments caused the haughty bashaw to come to terms, and the next year a 
treaty was signed on board the frigate — the first instance where a peace was concluded with any of 
the Barbary states on board a ship of war. 

In giving an account of the Constitution's warfare with the Tripolitans, I have followed commo- 
dore Preble's letter to the Secretary of the Navy, and avoided, as much as possible, the manoeuvres 
and actions of other vessels and other crews. My subject is simply the life of one gallant ship — 
and those who wish for more may look for it in Goldsborough's Naval Chronicle. 

* Naval Chronicle. 


VAnrotrs opinions have been hazarded concerning dreams — ^whether they have any connection 
with the invisible and eternal world or not ; and, it appears to me, the reason why nothings like a 
definite conclusion has yet been arrived at, is from the circumstance of the arguers never making any 
distinction between Mind and Soul; always speaking of them as one and the same. I believe man 
to be in himself a Trinity, viz. Mind, Body, and Soul; and thus with dreams, some induced by the 
mind, and some by the soul. Those connected with the mind, I think proceed partly from super- 
natural, and partly from natural causes ; those of the soul I believe are of the immaterial world alone. 

In order to support this position, it becomes necessary to show how the soul's dream and that of 
the mind are distinguishable ; and whether sometimes, or indeed often, they are not both at the same 
moment bearing their part in the nocturnal vision. 

That dreams, or, as they were then generally called, visions, were a means of supernatural in- 
struction, if we believe the bible at all, is proved by Jacob's dream, the several visions of Ezekiel and 
other prophets, as also of later date, the Eevelations to Saint John ; and there appears no reason why 
this mode of divine communication should be discontinued in the present day 

We thus come to the difference between dreams of the mind and wjs/ons of the soul — making this 
distinction of terms, not only on account of convenience, but also, as I consider, of applicability. 
Upon retiring to rest after a fatiguing day of either corporeal or mental exertion, should a dream 
present itself either as recapitulatory of, or connected with, the past events, this I should say was 
produced by the immaterial mind, which, unlike the body, was still in a state of vigor and activity ; 
and reflecting or re-enacting at night the scenes which had occupied its attention and energies during 
the day. But when slumbering, should a vision be induced either concerning Heaven or Hell, or 
any mystical and apparently prophetical forewarning of a coming event, and in connection with 
which the awakened visionist can trace no analogy to his thoughts or actions, this, I say, must 
proceed from the soul ; as the mind cannot have any thing to do with that it has not been engaged 
upon, as we all know that the mind only expands, and is active in proportion to its various degrees 
of employment. Not so the soul ; that of the infant is as ripe as the man's ; it is as immortal and as 
ready for Heaven ; and I have known children have nightly visions which were as evidently superior 
to the general tenor of their youthful ideas as possible, and which, had they not for the time being 
appeared to have had their mental powers raised above their usual level, they would have been to- 
tally unable to narrate. 

It is a question, in my humble opinion, whether the soul ever slumbers at all ; whilst the mind 
evidently does, or else we could always give upon waking some relation of our thought's employment 
during sleep. Besides which, it not unfrequently happens that when broad awake, a temporary 
absence of mind as it is called, takes place, and the person so affected cannot with all his endeavors 
discover upon what his meditations have been employed, or whether they have been so at all. Thus 
three portions of the one man seem to be most essentially different, in this way ; that the body often 
sleeps, the mind occasionally, the soul never ; and now I am expected to explain how, if the soul 
never sleeps, we have not always some vision to employ our waking consideration. I imagine that 
here in order to remember the vision of our soul, it is necessary for the connecting link between it 
and the body, viz. the mind, to be in full activity, although possessing its powers of memory from 
the eternal nature of its superior, and companion, the soul ; thus rendering it no difficulty to the 
mind to retain the reminiscence of its own dream, as the soul never sleeps ; which assertion may re- 
ceive additional confirmation from the following argument ; that were it only for one single moment 
to be unconscious of its existence, this would at once break in upon its eternal principle, as being a 
suspension of its own powers, and which cannot happen to eternity. It is the slumber of the mind 
and not the soul, therefore, which causes forgetfulneas. 







In our own country, the practice of archery as a pastime has met with a very trivial encourage- 
ment. We are, beyond doubt, too much a nation of matter-of-fact to indulge very largely in amuse- 
ments of any kind; and archery, and most other of the manly pastimes (with perhaps the single ex- 
ception of the race) have succumbed beneath the saturnine dominion of the genius of dollars and 
cents. Better times, however, may supervene, ami for our own parts we shall welcome them with 
a hearty good will. We proceed to give, briefly, some general regulations touching the practice of 
modern archery — with a description of the implements and the method of their use, as well as the 
precautions to be used in their selection. 


The woods of which bows are now generally made are very numerous. The chief of them are 
rose-wood, lance-wood, and yew, the last being by far the best of the three, but from the difficulty of 
obtaining a bough of sufficient size, and possessing the necessary qualities, yew bows are by far the 
most expensive. 

Several foreign woods, used for the purposes of dyeing and cabinet-making are very suitable for 
bows, such as fustic, rose-wood, etc.; that of the cocoa tree answers very well for making strong bows. 

Formerly hows were made of both steel and iron, as well as of the horns of animals so fastened 
together as to secure their curved form and their elasticity. The woods above noticed have now 
altogether superseded these plans, the last of which was chiefly adopted among the Persians and 

The best bows are made of two pieces, — the flat and outward part, which is called the back, and 
the round and inward part, teimed the belly. When these bows are manufactured they are put into 
a reflex frame in order to make them turn a little backward, a foim which gives them a greater ve- 
locity in shooting. This circumstance has frequently occasioned some very unpleasant mistakes, for 
the strength of the round piece, which is the very means of giving the bow its power, naturally 
compels the flat piece to fall back, and thus bows have been strung the WTong way, and consequently 
been injured ; for, when so bent, the slightest stress will break them. When being strung the bow 
should always be bent with the flat part outwards. Old Roger Ascham's advice upon the choice of 
a bow is not bad. He says, " If you come into a shoppe, and find a bowe that is small, longe, heavye, 
and strong, lying streighte, not windinge, not marred with knotte, gaule, winde shake, wem, freat, 
or pinch, bye that bowe of my warrante. The best color of a bowe that I finde, is when the back 
and the belleye in workinge be much after one maner, for such often times in wearing do prove like 
virgin wax or golde, having fine longe graine, even from one end of the bowe to the other. The 
short graine, although such prove well sometimes, are for the most part very brittle." Such was old 
Roger's advice, and the counsel holds good to the present day. 


It is especially necessary that the bow be well seasoned. Among the foreign woods the Ruby, as 
it is called, is considered by far the best. It is found in the East, difficult to be obtained, and highly 
prized by the bow makers. The tulip wood, cocoa-wood, thorn acacia, the purple wood, and the rose- 
wood, when backed with line white hickory, or horn-beam, make excellent bows. Next to yew, 
lancewood is the best, and perhaps more elegant. Foreign yew, however, incontestably forms by far 
the best bow, especially when backed by hickory. 

Nor is the form of the bow of much less consequence. Its curve, when the aiiow is pulled to the 
head, ought to be a perfect semicircle. This has of necessity been much the same among all nations, 
and in all ages. The Persian bow is short, being scarcely longer than the arm of a man, and is 
frequently made of the horns of the antelope. The Chinese-Tartarian bows vary from three to five 
feet in length when bent; the largest possess prodigious power, and are said to be capable of casting 
an arrow full five hundred yards, and will allow arrows of thirty-three or thirty-foui inches in length 
to be drawn quite up to the head. 

The length of the bow should be for a gentleman five feet eight to five feet ten inches, but six feet 
is even better than either of these two sizes — a lady's bow should be from five feet, to five feet six 
inches ; the former varying from forty-five pounds to seventy pounds, and upwards, and the latter 
seldom exceeding thirty-four pounds. Every bow has a mark upon it to indicate the weight requi- 
site to draw it home to the head ; and if it be recollected that just twice as much power is required 
as is marked on the bow, every one may easily ascertain his own strength. 


Having selected your bow, the next object is to ascertain that your judgment of it is correct. This 
is done by what is ieimeA proving. Every bow, as we have stated, is of some particular strength ; 
what that is, is learned by attaching weights to the string, when the bow is strung, until the bow is 
brought to such a curve as would draw the arrow to its head. Having done this, shoot for a little 
time with arrows in it twice the weight of those usually required, and then observe if it gives at all, 
and if it does, have that part strengthened, or change the bow. 


This is a very material part of the bowman's apparatus, as the safety of the bow in great part de- 
pends on its firmness. The concussion which the fracture of the string causes in the bow never fails 
either at the moment to shatter it in pieces, or to raise splinters, which, becoming deeper as the bow 
is used, speedily destroy the instrument. 

The strings used by the ancients seem to have been made of thongs of leather, cut chiefly from 
the fresh hides of bulls and other animals, as also from the intestines. Many strings now used are 
made of the latter, and are composed of numerous small cords extending the whole length, and 
bound here and there with silk to keep them together, and these have been found by practical archers 
to possess more strength than a single string of the same external dimensions. 

The material, however, of which the string is now usually made in England is hemp ; and the 
Italian species is best for the purpose. Catgut is considered too much under the influence of heat 
and moisture to retain at all times a proper tension ; while the former has not this disadvantageous 
quality in so great a degree. 

Care should be taken in selecting strings, to observe that the substance of the string diminishes 
gradually from the thick part to the ordinary line, and that there are no knobs or unevennessin that 
part used for shooting. The choice of the string will depend upon the strength of the bow. A thick 
string will shoot with most certainty, but a thin string will cast farther. The choice, however, is a 
matter of indifference, provided the string selected be not decidedly too thin for the strength of the 
bow, particularly if the bow be a backed one, and much reflexed, for many a good bow has been 
broken in consequence of the sudden jerk occasioned by the breaking of the string. 

The string should always be whipped with silk or fine twine at the nocking point, and also about 
the breadth of three fingers both above and below that point. The whipping as well as the string 
should be well waxed with bees'-wax ; and that will not only secure the string from being fretted 
but will tend to fill the nock of the arrow, which ought always to sit rather tightly on the stririg. It 
would be also advisable to whip the eye, and if after trial the string be found worthy, it would be ail 
the better for doing so, but attention to this particular is not so necessary as at the nocking point, 
where there is more wear. But to the noose it is a matter of far greater importance, for that is 
much more likely to fret than the eye. As soon as the silk or twine wears off, the string should be 


The next thing is to acquire a proper mode of bending the bow, for otherwise in the very fiist 
attempt it will probably be strained if not broken. We should again observe that the round part of 
the bow it is which should be bent inwards; that is called the belly of the bow ; the flat part, or back, 

108 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

should be bent outwards. Having paiticularly observed this, take the bow by the handle into the 
right hand ; let the lower end of the bow be placed against the inside of the right foot, (the lower 
end of the bow has always the shortest horn,) the foot being turned to prevent the bow from slipping. 
Keep the wrist firmly pressed to your side, so that the strength required in the left wiist to press 
down the upper limb cannot force the right wrist from its incumbent position ; place the centre of 
the left wrist upon the upper limb of the bow close under the eye of the string, keeping the arm 
quite straight — the tip of the thumb should be on one edge of the bow, and the knuckle of the fore- 
finger on the other. Pull the bow briskly with the right hand, and press the upper limb down with 
the left, sliding the wrist upwards towards the horn, while the tip of the thumb and the knuckle of 
the finger drive the eye of the string into the nock ; the string must be fairly in the nock before the 
left hand is removed. The three last fingers may be stretched out, as they are not wanted, for if they 
get between the string and the bow they may receive a severe pinch. To preserve a steadiness of 
position, have the right foot placed against a wall or some other stable support, the left foot being 
brought about a yard forward, the right knee may be bent, but the left must be kept as straight as 
possible ; a supposition may perhaps arise, in consequence of a failure to string in the first two or 
three attempts of the learner, that the bow is too strong for him ; but this will in all probability be a 
mistake, for it is not strength that is so much required as a knack — a right knowledge of performing 
the operation, and facility in its execution. Before attempting to string the bow he careful that the 
string is not twisted round it, and that the noose is in the centre of the horn. 

Should the string not be quite straight the defect may be remedied by first slackening it as in the 
act of unstringing, by pulling the bow up a little with the right hand, and pressing down the upper 
limb with the left, and then by twisting the noose to the right or left as may be required. 


The use of the long bow has now so entirely superseded that of its complex rival that it appears 
almost unnecessary to speak of any arrows but such as are fitted to use with it, yet it may not be 
improper to notice briefly, e?ij5C!.<'sani, the several kinds of instruments used in this very ancient 
mode of offence and defence. It is a singular fact, that the bow, as a weapon of war, appears to have 
been almost altogether confined to the Teutonic races. It is true that among some of the nations of 
Northern Africa, it has occasionally been used, and that among both the Greeks and Romans it was 
eometimes employed, but was never so efficient an arm to them as it was among the Parthians and 
the other tribes of North Western Asia, and the districts of Europe adjoining them, the inhabitants 
of which were in alliance with them. Through the connection between that people and the several 
laces which occupied the northern countries of Europe be very obscuredly traced in history, ws- 
cannot but think that the evidence of it is sufficiently clear as to establish their identity. Among 
tliem, the short arrow and bow, the former from eighteen inches to two feet long, and the latter 
measuring about a yard, were the common weapons, and were thus used among them, until their in- 
dividual existence as a people was lost in the gieat stream of modern population. In Britain it was 
the first form of the bow and arrow introduced, and continued in use here certainly till within a little 
time prior to the Norman conquest, and there is little doubt was chiefly and certainly used in En- 
gland for a century, and perhaps for a century and a half, after that epoch. In Scotland, indeed, it 
appears never to have been changed for any other. But the use of the long bow in the hands of the 
English archers at Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt, besides several other great engagements, so 
completely established its superiority that it quickly and almost entirely superseded any other form. 
The cloth yard shafts of Britain darkened many a sky, and seldom failed to carry death upon their 
wings ; and though the use of them as weapons of war has long been discontinued, they are too close- 
ly connected with the glorious associations of the national annals to be forgotten and disregarded, 
and will long continue, as they now are, a favorite means of noble sport and recreation. 

Arrows are made of weight and length proportionate to the size and strength of bows. Arrows 
for bows of five feet long are twenty-four inches in length. Bows under five feet nine inches have 
arrows twenty-seven inches in length ; and above five feet nine inches, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, 
and sometimes thirty inches long. But the last is an extreme length, seldom necessary and seldom 
used ; beyond the power of most men to draw them up to the head, and, to say the least of them, 
dangerous to the bow. Even arrows of twenty-nine inches long are inconvenient if not hazardous. 
Bows of five feet ten inches in length should never have an arrow longer than twenty-eight inches 
used with them. 

Different nations have used different substances in the fabrication of their arrows, though reeds 
have been most common. Dogwood, or the cornelian cherry, were formerly much used in their 
manufacture, as well as for javehns; but the calamus was much piized for the purpose, on account 
of its weight, which enabled it to resist the air, and consequently rendered it more obedient to the 
impetus given by the bow. 

Sheaf, or war arrows were, it seems, generally made of ash ; for Ascham observes that it were 
better to make them of good ash, and not of the aspen, as of all woods he ever proved, ash he found 
the best and swiftest, as well as the most effective, from the weight of the wood, aspen being muck 



inferior. " The stele," (the arrow without feather or head,) he says, " should be made as the grain 
lies, or it will never fly straight ; and knots ought to be carefully avoided, as a knotty stele is more 
liable to break, and does not fly so far, because the strength of the shoot is hindered and stopped by 
the knot. It is better to have the shaft a little too short than over long, somewhat too light than over 
lumpish, a little too small than a great deal too large." The shdft must be perfectly round, as it is 
the best shape both for swiftness and for most easily piercing any thing. Arrows are now usually 
made of red deal, ash, and a light white wood, very much like that of the lime and abele trees. 
Fletchers hold the first in high estimation ; it wears quickly and is apt to splinter, and should there- 
fore for protection be varnished two or three times over. Mr. Hastings says that lime is an excellent 
wood for arrows, and that those arrows fly farthest and cleanest through the air which are perfectly 
round, rather high chested, or tapeiing in a very small degree from the shoulder or close of the pile 
to the nock, taking care that the pile be not heavier than will cause the arrow, when completed, to 
balance on the finger about one third or a little more of the way from the pile to the nock, or rather 
more than halfway frjm the nock to the pile. 


The weight of an arrow is the next consideration. It is the usual practice in England, to weigh 
arrows against silver money at the mint standard weight ; thus it has been ascertained that the weight 
of an arrow is from three to twenty shillings, though they are seldom used heaviei than five. Roberts, 
in his " English Bowman," gives the following directions for ariows to shoot with at a particular 
distance: 30 yards, from is. to 6.?., 60, 3s. (\d. to ^s. ed., 90, to 120, 3s. to 4s. 6d. Thus it would 
appear that an arrow of the weight of 5s. would be about light for the generality of distances, but this 
of course depends much both upon the bow and the shooter, and much acute attention is required to 
ascertain the precise weight fitted for every occasion. We are induced to notice this matter par- 
ticularly, because the success of archery mainly depends upon it, and a perfect knowledge of it is only 
to be acquired by practice and close attention. One thing should be observed, that arrows for par- 
ticular distances should be selected and set apait. 


It has been well obseived that nothing is of so much consequence as the feathei of the arrow, and 

110 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

the truth of the observation will at once be perceived, when it is recollected that this is the wing by 
which the arrow flies, and that upon this the steadiness and velocity of its flight depends. The best 
feather is from the wing of the gray goose, and it has been celebrated by both historians and poets, 
though we believe it to be equalled by that of the tuikey, and surpassed by that of the eagle. This 
IS natural, for strength and elasticity are the prime requisites in the feather of an arrow ; and thesis 
qualities are found in a very superior degree in the feathers of the eagle. Of the goose's wing, the 
second, third, and fourth feathers are those most esteemed. The featheis should not be drawn, but 
pared with a fine sharp knife, and afterwards cut into proper length and shape. The length of the 
feather for arrows of twenty-seven inches long, exclusive of the pile, and of 4s. or 4s. 6d. weight, 
should be four and a half inches, or four and five-eighths, and set on the shaft about one and a quarter 
inches, or one and three-eighths from the extreme end of the nock, the feather being there three- 
fiighths of an inch, and finely tiimmed to the end. Should the shaft be a very heavy one, the feather 
must be made proportionably strong. A lady's arrow, which is lighter, should of course have a fea- 
ther proportionably small. It should be particularly observed, to select the feathers from the right or 
the left wing, that is, the smooth side should always be kept the same way. The archer will find it 
necessary to have both sorts with him, as the arrow in its rotatory motion through the air is much 
influenced by a side wind. The resistance of the feather is on its convex side, and therefore those 
arrows should be used which are fletched with feathers having the convex towards that side whence 
the wind comes. 


The pile is the hard part, composed of whatever it may be, placed at the end of the arrow, and in- 
tended to pierce any substance against which it may be shot. The term is derived from the Latin 
■word pila, a ball, and came to be used from the practice of those people, who, in the time of Henry 
VII., lived within the range of the ro3'al forests, and were compelled to use round-headed arrows on 
account of the deer. It is in general made of some metal. Among some of the ancients brass was 
in much request. The Flemish arrows are at this day tipt with horn, as their laws prohibit the use 
of iron or steel for that purpose. The latter substances are those which have been, and are still most 
commonly used, tempered to the degree requisite to pierce the textvxre against which it is intended 
to be used. The piles of arrows for the pastime of archery should be made round, of thin steel, or 
very hard iron, about three-quarters of an inch in length, with the barbs just wide enough apart to 
admit the shaft, after having been filed sufficiently down to go up to the extremity of the pile. 

When tlie wind is against him, or boisterous, the archer will find the blunt-headed arrows the 
best ; but with a wind, and favorable for the flight, a sharp pile will be found preferable. 


The nock is that part of the arrow fitted for the string. This is generally inlaid with horn, and 
•should have the nick wide enough to fit on the string easily, but not loosely. Arrows should be 
chosen with the nock too narrow rather than otherwise, as that is a defect which can soon be reme- 
died by the use of a file, while too wide a nock is both inconvenient and disagreeable, and most pro- 
bably uncertain, and farther, is a fault which cannot be amended. The nock should also be as smooth 
as possible. 


Is generally made of leather or tin, and should be deep enough to take in the arrows nearly up to 
the feather. Wood or leather were the substances used for making it in former times, but they have 
now been superseded by tin, which is both lighter and more impermeable to wet. It should be large 
enough to carry from eight to a dozen arrows. The quiver is never worn, except in roving. In 
shooting at targets, oi butts, it is placed a few yards beside them, three arrows being all that are re- 
quired for present use. The rest are kept in reserve, to supply the place of those which may meet 
with accidents. The quiver should be carried on the right side behind. 


This article is made of leather, and buckles round the arm of the archer, answering two purposes ; 
■viz., preserving the arm from the violent stroke of the string in loosing, and from its smooth surface 
allowing the string to glide freely, and without the hindrances that an ordinary cloth sleeve presents. 
The pain infhcted by the string, upon an arm unprotected by the biacer, is sufficient to disable the 
bowman from the farther immediate use of his bow. 


The belt is generally made of cow-hide leather, with a well or pouch to receive the pile heads of 
the arrows, through a leathern loop. It buckles round the waist, with the pouch on the right side, 
and a tassel made of green worsted, for wiping the dirt off the arrows, on the other. The tassel should 
he used as soon as the airow is drawn from the ground. 



The diameter of a gentleman's target, from the extremity of the outer white circle, is four feet, and 
all shots beyond that are not considered as being within the target. Ladies' targets are made on the 
same principle, but considerably smaller, generally about three feet in diameter. Targets are often 
made of millboard, which, though not nearly so durable as the others, are more convenient for 
carrying about, as a boy can with ease bear them for a considerable distance. There should always 
be a pair in the field, as it shortens the walk, and reduces the trouble to shoot backwards and for- 
wards, instead of shooting at one target. The colors are a gold eye, surrounded by a red circle, that 
by a white one, that circumscribsd by a black one, and that again by the white: each of these pos- 
sesses a value proportional to its nearness to the centre. The margin of the target is called the petti- 


The usual distance prescribed is, for gentlemen, one hundred yards, and for ladies fifty. It is 
better, however, for gentlemen to begin at seventy yards, or at most eighty, than with the whole dis- 
tance at once. 


This is of very much more consequence than the inexperiened archer would at first suppose. In 
doing a thing well, especially in a pastime, it is always worth while to do it gracefully also, for that 
is not only pleasing, but often useful. The most graceful position is that in which the nund has 
most complete command over the motions of the limbs. Ascham says the attitude should be 
such, " as shall be both pleasing to the eye of the beholder, and advantageous to the shooter, setting 
his countenance, and all parts of his body in such a manner and position, that both all his strength 
may be employed most to advantage, and his shot made and managed to other men's pleasure and 
delight. A man must not go hastily about it, nor yet make too much ado about it ; one foot must 
not stand too far from the other, lest he stoop too much, which is unbecoming, nor yet too near the 
other, lest he should stand too upright, for so a man shall neither use his strength well, noryet stand 
steadfastly. The mean betwixt both must be kept ; a thing more pleasant to behold when it is done, 
than to be taught how it should be done." 

The archer should place himself in such a manner, that the side of his body should be towards the 
mark, so that if the target be due north, he may face directly to the east, holding the bow horizontally, 
with the string upwards. Thus standing, he is prepared for 


The arrow being thus placed and steadily held, the archer, with his feet nearly squared, and abou^ 
eight or ten inches apart, commences the operation of drawing. Gradually pressing the bow down 
with his left hand, he draws at the same time the string with his light, and keeping his right elbow 
well up, gracefully raises his arms, his left extended with his bow, the wrist turned rather inwards, 
and the right drawing the string till the arrow be brought up about half way. The arrow being 
sufficiently raised'according to the distance of the mark, it should be drawn up to the pile, and then, 
with a moment's aim (for that ought to be sufficient, and more would be injurious) the archer lets 
fly, with a steady and sharp loose. 

- O F T A K I N G A I M . 

Of all exercises, coolness, attention, and confidence is most required in Archery, and few things 
are more affected in their success by the state of the animal spirits. Much judgment is necessary in 
taking aim, and it is especially requisite that a proper " length" should be taken. Many archers have 
a custom of looking down their arrows at the mark, but the best authorities seem agreed that the 
right plan is to keep the eye steadily fixed on the mark, and our high authority, Ascham, especially. 
He says, " For having a man's eye always on his mark is the only wav to shoot straight, yea, and I 
suppose so redye and easy a way, if it be learned in youth and confirmed with use, that a man shall 
never miss therein." The supposition that a more correct sight is obtained by looking down the shaft 
is erroneous ; doing so only distracts the attention. 

The whole of these motions are of course but parts of one continuous effort, and the more evenly 
it can be performed the better. Drawing is one of the very nicest points in archery — Old Roger 
calls it " the best part of shootinge," and should be done as precisely as possible, with the utmost 
steadiness. If the fingers embrace the stiing too much, it will twist, and the arrow fly wide of its 
mark. It ought to have the string in a truly right line. In target shooting the nock of the arrow is 
brought a little under the ear, but in long shots the arrow has to describe a greater curve, and the 
drawing hand must consequently be more depressed, so that the nock of the arrow may be brought 
down towards the right breast. 


Concealment. A Novel. Two Volumes. Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia. 

This novel is of ihe Billy Lackaday school of perfection — full of Anna Marias, angelic captains, 
and seraphic situations. The author has indulged in the concealment of his name — if the booksel- 
lers had indulged in the concealment of the novel, the injured public would have been saved the in- 
fliction of considerable twaddle. We pity the poor creature, who, on a lainy day, has no other book 
at hand than this same novel of" Concealment !" 

Phantasmio7i, Prince of Palmland. Iwo Volumes. S. Colman, New York. 

These volumes form the first issue of a Library of Romance, edited by Grenville Mellen, and pub- 
lished by Mr. Colman. The editor, in his introduction, speaks of the merits of Phantasmion with 
most exaggerated emphasis ; but, with due respect to Mr, Mellen's acknowledged judgment, we can- 
not give our assent to the praises he has bestowed upon the work before us. It is, at best, but a 
pretty puerility — a concoction of stale magicals, and fairy fancies, interspersed with some dainty con- 
ceits, and a few pieces of excellent poetry. Notwithstanding the clear definition of the fitness of 
simplicity, in the well-written introduction by the editor, and his assertion that Phantasmion is made 
to touch, with a masterly wand, every spirit that loves to indulge in unrestrained pilgrimage through 
the land of the free and the fanciful, we aver that the simplicity of Phantasmion frequently degene- 
rates into positive inanity, and that the intense passages trench most closely upon the realms of 
verbiage and fustian. In support of our assertions, we append a brace of quotations. 

First, for the " good taste" of the simplicity : — 

" While the old man stood talking to larine, describing with lively gestures the battle of tigers, 
the braying of horns, the crashing of boughs, and the yelling of wounded beasts, many of his sheep, 
as if glad to steal away from the oft-told tale, had straggled into the woody glen, which was full 
of soft herbage, and larine offered to guard the main body of his flock while he went in search of 
the truants ; so thanking her for that courtesy, taking a weapon of defence from his girdle, and 
placing his crook in her hand, he hastened away. The lovely princess led the flock slowly onward 
till she arrived at a stream, which crossed the dell, and had been swollen by sudden rains to a tor- 
rent : here she paused, waiting for the shepherd, and, while the sheep eyed the water, thinking per- 
chance of a ford lower down, where they had crossed in the morning, larine's mind had*ravelled 
back to her father and Albinet, thence to her baby brother, and all the time was not wholly absent 
from Phantasmion. At last, she began to think that the old man was long away, and looked up 
with pleasure when she heard footsteps advancing ; but he who now stood before her was more like 
a king than a rustic swain ; his attire, though black, was costly, his countenance abstracted and 
grave. He stopped to look at larine, as she lifted up a dripping lamb which had slipped into the 
water, and, seeing that she eyed him anxiously, as if desirous yet afraid to speak, (for indeed she 
■wished to inquire whether he had seen the shepherd,) his eye lit up with expectation, and in an 
eager tone he exclaimed — ' Hast thou aught to tell me of the silver pitcher ?^ " 

Now, for a specimen of the much-lauded " gorgeousness and exuberance: — " 

" But lo ! the sun has broken through its hazy veil, and Feydeleen's soft cheek, as if it faded in 
the brilliant light, is seen no more among the blossoms ; Albinet raises his head, from which the 
airy chaplet melts away, and with wonder-stricken eyes Eurelio gazes upward, for Potentilla has 
risen from his side. A moment yet the wings of her insect steeds are painted against the background 
of one lingering cloudlet — but now they disappear, while earth below, suffused with splendor, be- 
comes a softened image of the heavens themselves." 



We give, in justice, a specimen of the poetry, which is excellent, but scarcely powerful enough 
to warrant the resuscitation of this tedious romance. 

By the storm invaded 
Ere thy arch was wrought, 
Rainbow, thou hast faded 
Like a gladsome thought, 
And ne'er mayst shine aloft in all earth's colors 

Insect, tranced forever 
In thy pendent bed. 
Which the breezes sever 
From its fragile thread, 
Thou ne'er shall burst thy cell and crumpled pi- 
nions spread. 

Their armor is flashing 

And linging and clashing. 

Their looks are wild and savage ! 

With deeds of night 

They have daiken'd the light, 

They are come from reckless ravage ! 

O bountiful Earth, 

With famine and dearth, 

With plague and fire surround them ; 

Thy womb they have torn 

With impious scorn ; 

Let its tremblings now confound them ! 

Our cause maintain — 

For as dew to the plain, 

Or wind to the slumbering sea. 

Or sunny sheen 

To woodlands green, 

So dear have we been to thee. 

The new-blown flowers, 

From thy fairest bowers, 

Their rifling hands have taken ; 

And the tree's last crop, 

That was ready to drop. 

From the dews have rudely shaken ; 

Through deep green dells, 

Where the bright stream wells, 

Like diamond with emerald blending ; 

Through sheltered vales, 

Where the light wind sails. 

High cedars scarcely bending ; 

Through lawn and grove. 

Where the wild deer rove. 

They have rushed like a burning flood ; 

For morning's beam. 

Or the starry gleam. 

Came fire, and sword, and blood. 

Lily, born and nourish'd 
'Mid the waters cold, 
Where thy green leaves flourish'd, 
On the sunburnt mould, 
How canst thou rear thy stem and sallow buds 
unfold ? 

Snowy cloud, suspended 
0"ei the orb of light, 
With its radiance blended 
Ne'er to glisten bright, 
It sinks, and thou grow'st black beneath the wing© 
of night. 

Then lend us thy might, 

Great Earth, for the fight, 

O help us to quell their pride : 

Make our sinews and bones 

As firm as the stones. 

And metals that gird thy side ; 

May the smould'ring mountains, 

And fiery fountains 

Inflame our vengeful ire, 

And beasts that lurk 

In thy forests murk. 

Their tameless rage inspire ; 

While from caves of death 

Let a sluggish breath 

O'er the spoilers' spirits creep. 

send to their veins '■ 

The chill that reigns ^ 

In thy channels dark and deep. 

But if those we abhor 

Must triumph in war. 

Let us sink to thy inmost centre. 

Where the trump's loud sound, 

Nor the tramp and the bound, 

Nor the conqueror's shout can enter ; 

Let mountainous rocks, 

By earthquake shocks. 

High o'er our bones be lifted ; 

And piles of snow, 

Where we sleep below, 

To the plains above be drifted ; 

If the muiderous band 

Must dwell in the land, 

And the fields we loved to cherish. 

From the land of balm 

Let cedar and palm 

With those that rear'd them perish. 

The Barber of Paris ,- or Moral Retribution. By Paul de Kock, author of "Andrew the Savoy' 
ard," " Good Fellow," etc. Two Volumes. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia. 

Paul de Kock occasionally receives a good share of abuse from various of the English critics of 
the newly-raised school of elegance and aristocracy — who delight to see mankind in embroidered 
coats and satin smalls, and vote every man a mauvais sujet who does not figure in silk stockings. 
A novel, must, to be good in their estimation, be devoted to the sayings and doings of the fashiona- 
ble world — a close portrayal of human nature is of small avail, unless the characteristics of high life 

114 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

form the text — in other words, the sterling value of the metal is not of so much importance as the 
fashion of the make. 

There are other writers who, descending to the opposite extreme, revel in the development of the 
miseries of poverty and the degradation of vice — who relate, with a Crabbe-like minuteness, the in- 
significant details of every-day life, and require their readers to shed tears of agony over the distresses 
of the lowest and vilest of mankind. Now-a-days, i\\e personnes of a novel are either superhuman 
in their goodness, or ultra-demoniac in their wickedness — it is the age of extremes. 

Paul de Kock, as we have before observed, is a painter of life as it is — his pages teem with ex- 
cellence, but his readers require the possession of a certain wordly experience before they can per- 
ceive the full value of the scenes presented to their notice. Notwithstanding the volatility of the 
class of people from which he selects his sulyects, there is less of oufrance or caricature in his de- 
lineations than in the pages of Marryatt, although, in other points, there is much similarity 
between the two authors. Paul de Kock's works will exist when many of the popular writers of 
the day are forgotten. 

" The Barber of Paris" is the most powerful in its effects of all the author's works. Lively nar- 
rative, startling but natural incident, and great diversity of well-sustained character, combine to 
make the most agreeable reprint of the season. 

The Jubilee of the Cmistitution. A Discourse delivered at the Request of the Neiv Yo7'k Histwica' 
Society, in the City of New York, on Tuesday, the 3Qth of April, 1839 ,• being the Fiftieth Anl 
niversary of the Inauguration of George Washington as President of the United States on 
Thursday, the 30th of April, 1789. By John Quincy Adams. Samuel Caiman, New York. 

This pamphlet should be read by all parties, and then carefully laid aside, as a work abounding in 
valuable minute points of historical information, many of which are not to be met with elsewhere. 
We have here a vigorous sketch of the difficulties which preceded, and of the inefficiency which em- 
barrassed, the confederation originally adopted by the States, and a faithful detail of the causes, 
arising from the imperfection of the first league, which led to the adoption of our present constitu- 
tion. What Mr. Adams has thus done could not be so well done, perhaps, by any man living. The 
circumstances by which he has been surrounded from his boyhood — his intimate connexion, private 
and public, with the leading men of the Revolution — his long continued political career — his in- 
dustrious habits of observation — his personal identification for nearly half a century with the interests 
of his subject — all had conspired to assure us that this subject would be skilfully handled, and the 
discourse itself assures us ihat, essentially, it is. We say essentially — for, considered in a less im- 
portant light, as a matter of mere literature — the whole will be regarded by every one of true taste 
as a failure. This turgid hyper-rhetorical style becomes neither the subject nor the man. Mr. Colman 
has printed the pamphlet most beautifully — as he does every thing of the kind — and no American 
desirous of accurate acquaintance with the political aflairs of his country, will need to be told that it 
is absolutely incumbent upon him to procure a copy, and to prcsei've it. 

The Gentleman of the Old School. By the author of " The Huguenot," " The Robber," etc. 
Two Volumes. Harper and Brothers, New York. 

We have been told, by one who should know, that Mr. James' habits of composition are pecu- 
liar — for example, that, while walking to and fro hurriedly, he dictates, in an excited manner, to 
an amanuensis ; and that it is impossible for the latter, although a practised penman, and chosen 
principally on account of his rapidity of hand, to keep pace with the improvisation of the novelist. 
We hear, moreover, from a different source, that the MSS. thus furiously indited are committed to 
the press, and issued, without farther intervention on the part of the author. The exceeding polish 
of his general style, and, especially, the nice adaptation to each other of the individual portions of 
his works, would, at first sight, seem to throw discredit upon these and similar statements ; but the 
litterateur who writes much will be able readily to perceive how the unchecked fervor of such me- 
thods of composition may do more for niceness of finish, than even a ddigent elaboration in cool 
moments. He will not be able to see, however, (provided he possess any powers of analysis,) how 
such methods can be consistent with weight, depth, true vigor, and, least of all, with originality — 
that apparently most intemperate of literary merits, but the one which, most of all, demarrds a quiet 
self-examination, and a deliberate adjustment of thought. Accordingly, in these points we find Mr. 
James deficient — here speaking, of course, comparatively. He is not as profound nor as original, 
as he is flowing and polished ; but in all good qualities he far surpasses the mass of the novelists of 
the day. 

We do not think the " Gentleman of the Old School" the best, or even the fourth or fifth best, 
of his fictions. We would therefore caution hjm (but then he will never hear us) to pause in his 


system of amanuensing, and betake himself, in a deliberate spirit, to the ordinaiy proprieties of the 
lamp and the arm-chair. Lady Mallory is inconsistent. We should be wrong in quarrelling- with 

anyjhuman being (much less with the representation of any human being) for inconsistency alone 

but then she is impossibly inconsistent. Her qualities would neutralize each other ; her feelings and 
principles are positively incompatible. Her attempts to interfere with the lovers, Ralph and Edith 
are, in the bitterness of their mahgnancy, altogether at war with that species of goodness which is 
the moralt of her whole nature and existence. We dislike, too, especially, the clap-trap system af- 
fected throughout the book. We despise all such things as rings and miniatures ; and, above all, 
abominate little boxes with mighty secrets hidden therein. The entire merit of the novel is never- 
theless great — but lies among deeper considerations than we could venture to touch upon in any 
cursory and random critique. 

Sketches of London, By the author of " Random Recollections of the Lords and Commons,'" 
" The Great Metropolis," etc. etc. Two Volumes. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia. 

All the works of Mr. Grant are readable ; but, in general, they have about them an air of book- 
making — an internal evidence, not to be mistaken, of having been written under the inspiration of 
Mammon, instead of a muse. There is always a woful effort at stretching out the mat;ter — at mak- 
ing as much as possible of nothing at all. For this end, the gentleman indulges in an amplitude of 
narration, intermingled with an infinity of comment, which is amusing — to say no more. His style 
is about the flattest imaginable. The tone of his moral or philosophical observation — a point upon 
which he evidently "prides himself — is positively grotesque in its utter platitude. Only imagine long 
chapters of such paternal advice as this ! We should like to see the Uttle queen reading it. 

" I am sure, that were a sovereign, possessed of such amiable feelings as Victoria, and who is so 
exceedingly anxious to promote the cause of morals, and to increase the happiness of mankind — 
only aware of the deploiable and destructive consequences of horse-racing, she would at once with- 
draw her patronage from that pastime." 

" The Sketches of London" resemble the previous books by the same author pretty nearly. All 
have been read — and there can be no very great harm in reading them. They contain a good deal 
of minute information, the accuracy of which has been impugned, and defended, and impugned 
again. To contradict the assertions, in general, of Mr. Grant, requires a kind of knowledge that 
few men possess. There can be no doubt however that he occasionally hazards a bold remark about 
matters of which he is stupidly ignorant. For example — " Oxford street," he says, " is about a 
mile and a half in length in a straight line, being, as already observed, longer than any street in any 
other city in the world." We forget the exact length of Broadway or of Greenwich street, in New 
York — but our own Front street is nearly four miles in length, and we have several others nearly 
as long. 

Popular Lectures on Geology. Treated in a very Comprehensive Manner, by H. C, Von Leon- 
hard, Counsellor of Stale, and Professor at the University of Heildelberg, in Germany. With 
Illustrative Engravings. Translated by Rev. J. G. Morris, A. M., and Edited by Professor 
F. Hall, M. D., etc., etc, N. Hickman, Baltimo7-e. 

These Lectures are, in the proper sense of the word, popular, being at the same time elaborate, 
and sufficiently scientific not to appear jejune. The author. Professor Leonhard, is well known as 
the wiiter of a large and excellent " Manual of Geology and Geognosy," and also of a " Treatise 
on Basaltic Formations, in their relation to Normal and Abnormal Rocks." 

The pamphlet now before us is the first of a series which will be issued in monthly numbers, of 
about one hundied pages each, succeeding each other as fast as they can be done into English, and 
prepared for the press. Many valuable notes are added by the Editor, chiefly on the subject of Ame- 
rican Geology. The engravings, however, are badly done, and derogate very materially from the 
high value of the publication, which we recommend, pointedly, to the notice of our readers. 

The Pocket Lacon; comprising nearly One Thousand Extracts from the Best Authors. Selected 
by John Taylor. Two Volumes. Lea and Blanchard, Philadelphia. 

The title here does not fully indicate the nature of the work. The selections are made with no 
reference to beauty of style, or truth of sentiment^ — these points, at all events, being less considered 
than that certain pungency (derived from antithesis, or novelty, or boldness, or paradox,) which acts 
upon thought with the stimulus of spice upon the palate. We do not mean, however, to find fault 

116 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

■with our author upon this account ; but, on the contrary, insist that he has displayed no shallow 
philosophy in his method and matter of extract. Books like this are not to be regarded as vehicles 
of truth, (who, in hei majesty, disdains all insulated arguments, all fragmentary propositions, all 
reasonings in petto,') but merely as provocatives to her pursuit, as the means of an exercise well 
fitted for the strengthening of the powers to be subsequently employed in her attainment. We have 
before us now rather the incentive to logical thought, than its proper or admissible result. Most 
of the opinions advanced in this " Pocket Lacon" are questionable, many of them perversely so- 
phistical, some trashy and unworthy of notice, some even outrageously absurd. In saying this, it 
will be seen that we say nothing against the merit of the book, which is great — or against the ca- 
pacity of the compiler, who has perfectly fulfilled his intention, and who, moreover, in his Preface, 
has given undeniable evidence of sound discrimination and of a cultivated intellect. 

The Triumphs of Science. A Poem. Delivered before the Whig Society of Hanover College. 
By William Wallace, author of the " Battle of Tippecanoe" " Dirge of Napoleon," and other 
Poems. Published at the request of the Society. 

This poem contains about four hundred and fifty pentameter lines. The author, in a dedication 
to Messieurs I. and T. Dowling, Editors of the Wabash Courier, speaks of his production " as the 
last of the kind which he shall ever present to the public ;" but we sincerely hope that he has either 
already thought better of this matter, or will think better of it hereafter. 

In truth, the verses of this unpretending little pamphlet evince powers of a lofty order; we need 
hardly add that, in comparison with three-fourths, or indeed with nine-tenths, of the hot-pressed and 
gilt-edged inanities of the day, they are — Hyperion to a Satyr. We do not wish — it is not our 
fashion — to speak hyperbolically in praise of any thing, but it is no hyperbole to say that there arc 
many passages in " The Triumphs of Science" (so many as to constitute the mass of the poem) 
equal at least to any of the very best specimens of our indigenous poetry. Such versification as 
this, embodying imagery so just, and enkindled by imagination so vigorous, is not a matter of every- 
day occurrence. 

Oh ! who can tell the raptures of that time 
When o'er man's spirit science burst sublime — 
Disclosed the splendors of the spangled dome 
Whose mystic toiches lit Jehovah's home, 
As step by step his soul in wonder trod 
Nature's bright stairway up to Nature's God ? 

Six thousand years the Bell of Time had tolled. 
And still the sea in awful mystery rolled. 
While his blue arms embraced a glorious zone 
No eye had seen save God's great eye alone. 

Passages like these abound in the poem. We need scarcely comment upon their wonderful beauty. 
The image in the third line italicized is of the very highest order of merit of which poetical imagery 
is susceptible — although, elsewhere, we have asserted, and do now still maintain, that imagery, even 
in its purest nature and most skilful adaptation, belongs to a secondary rank, only, of poetical ex- 
cellence. But upon this topic we may take occasion to speak more fully hereafter. In regard to 
the line above, commencing " Six thousand years," we repeat that it is perfect in its way, and gives 
evidence of an original mind imbued with a deeply imaginative sentiment. An every-day poetaster 
would here have affronted and overpowered us by some classical balderdash about scythes and hour- 
glasses, (to say nothing of grey -beards and fore-locks and wings upon the feet,) and would never 
have dared to dream that there existed so modern and so common-place a thing in the world as the 
spirit-lifting and memory-stirring bell. 

Still, we should be sorry to estimate the powers of Mr. Wallace by what we see here, and are in- 
clined to regard this pamphlet rather as an indication, than as the result, of his ability. The sim- 
ple idea of a task fulfilled, of a poem (especially) upon a stated subject, delivered at an appointed 
hour, before an expectant society, carries with it visions of embarrassment and constraint, repugnant 
to the best feelings of true merit, and in consonance with the feeble sleepy notions of mediocrity 
alone. Therefore, Mr. W. has not now written as he could and would have written under more 
favorable circumstances. But we acknowledge the evidence of far more than ordinary strength in 
his efforts — or, more strictly, in the character of his efforts — to break through the conventional tram- 
mels of this despicable species of task-writing — a species in which no man of true taste will wish 
to succeed — in which no man of high genius can — a species, in short, whose sine qua non of suc- 
cess depends upon the negative, and certainly somewhat anomalous merit, of the possession of no 


talent at all. A reasonable individual would as soon think of flying in fetters, or of going up sero- 
nauting in a leaden balloon. 

Tortesa, the Usurer. A Play. By N. P. Willis. Samuel Colman, Neio Yorh. 

" Tortesa" is, we think, by far the best play from the pen of an American author. Its merits He 
among the higher and most diflicult dramatic qualities, and, although few in number, are extensive 
in their influence upon the whole work ; pervading it, and fully redeeming it from the sin of its 
multitudinous minor defects. These merits are naturalness, truthfulness, and appropriateness, upon 
all occasions, of sentiment and language; a manly vigor and breadth in the conception of charac- 
ter; and a fine ideal elevation or exaggeration thioughout — a matter forgotten or avoided by those 
who, with true Flemish perception of truth, wish to copy her peculiarities in disarray. Mr. Willis 
has not lost ^ght of the important consideration that the perfection of dramatic, as well as of plas- 
tic skill, is found not in the imitation of Nature, but in the artistical adjustment and amplification 
of her features. We recognize a refined taste upon every page of " Tortesa." Its points, too, are 
abundant, and scatter vivacity and brilliancy over the play. That the excellences of which we 
speak are great, cannot be more forcibly shown than by allusion to some of the innumerable faults 
which aie still insufficient to render these excellences obscure. 

The plot is miserably incoiisequential, A simple prose digest, or compendium, of the narrative, 
would be scarcely intelligible, so much is the whole overloaded with incidents that have no bearing 
upon the ultimate result. Three-fourths of the play might be blotted out without injury to the plot 
properly so called. This would be less objectionable, if it were not that the attention of the reader 
is repeatedly challenged to these irrelevant incidents, as if they were actually pertinent to the main 
business of the drama. We are not allowed to pass them by, in perusal, as obviously episodical. 
We fatigue ourselves with an attempt to identify them with the leading interests, and grow at length 
wearied in the fruitless effort. When we perceive Zippa plotting and counterplotting upon every 
page, it is impossible not to think that she is plotting to some purpose. She does nothing, however, 
in the end; and for any effect upon the play, might as well never have existed. An instance of 
this is seen in the last act, where the whole of the second scene is introduced for the purpose of in- 
forming her, by means of Tomaso, of the danger of Angelo. She rushes from the stage exclaim- 
ing that she has it in her power to save his life ; and of course, in the trial scene, we naturally expect 
some important interference on her part. The judgment is rendered, however, without her interpo- 
sition. The conclusion of the play, too, is much in the same way. The audience cannot be brought 
to believe that all the scheming and counterscheming here introduced is in the slightest degree es- 
sential, since the entire difficulty might have been settled by a single word from the Duke, who is 
favorably disposed to all parties. 

The old manoeuvre of the sleeping draught calls Romeo and Juliet somewhat too forcibly to mind. 
The idea, too, of the deception practised upon Tortesa by means of the portrait is borrowed appa- 
rently from the Winter's Tale, and is moreover absurd. No person could have been thus deceived, 
and the spectator cannot imagine any such deception. " The back wall of the scene," we are told 
in the stage directions, " is so arranged as to form a natural ground for the picture ;" but this is ob- 
viously impossible, except in regard to a single point of view — the illusion would be dispelled by 
the slightest movement on the part of Tortesa. There are a great many other improbabilities which 
entirely destroy the vraisemblance — but we have not space to point them out. The characters, ge- 
nerally, are deficient in prominence — in individuality. Zippa is a positive failure — we can make 
nothing of her. Tortesa is outrageously inconsistent. It is impossible to reconcile the utter black- 
guard of the first scenes, with the lofty self-sacrificing spirit vcho figures in the last. The concep- 
tion, too, of the revulsion of feeling on the part of the usurer is a very antique conception at best. 
But we repeat that, in spite of these and a hundred other serious blemishes, we esteem " Tortesa" 
as by far the best American play. Mr. Willis, we are happy to perceive, has nearly altogether 
thrown aside the besetting sin of his earlier days — the sin of affectation. This was his worst ene- 
my — vanquishing it, he has nothing to fear. Mr. Colman cannot be too highly praised for the 
beauty of this publication, which forms a volume of his " Dramatic Library." 

Precaution. A Novel. By tJie Author of the '^ Spy T '■'■ Pioneer ^ etc., etc. A New Edition, Re- 
vised by the Author. Two Volumes. Lea a?id Blanchard, Philadelphia. 

This, the first of Mr. Cooper's novels in point of time, is beyond all question the last in point of 
quality — yet it may be read wilh pleasure, and will and should be read by all our literary people, as 
a matter of simple curiosity, and in view of what the author of the " Spy" has since so happily ac- 
complished. He tells us, in the preface to the present edition, that the book originally owed ita 

118 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

existence to an accident, and was printed under circumstances which prevented his own personal 
supervision of the press. The consequences were many defects in plot, style, and arrangement. The 
publication, too, was nearly, if not totally ruined, by mere typographical errors — the fruits of a bad 
MS. Under these circumstances the public must acknowledge their indebtedness to Messieurs Lea 
and Blanchard for the present edition. We cannot forbear saying, however, that had we been Mr. 
Cooper — had we been Alexander instead of Diogenes — we should not have again thrust the book 
upon the attention of the public, but, putting it quietly behind the fire, have endeavored, with all our 
might and main, to forget that so great a mass of trash ever existed. 

Six Weeks in Fauquier. Being the substance of a series of Familiar Letters, illustrating the 
Scenery, Localities, Medicinal Virtues, and General Characteristics of the White Sulphur 
Springs, at Warrenton, Fauquier County, Virginia. Written in 1838, to a Gentleman in 
Netv England. By a Visiter. Samuel Colman, New York. -^ 

This is a long title to a rather small affair — a thin duodecimo of sixty-seven pages. The truth 
is that the whole ivork has very much the air of a quack advertisement; and, but for those incon- 
trovertible words, " By a Visiter," one might suspect that the proprietors of the While Sulphur 
Springs had themselves turned authors for the r .5. Be this as it may, the writer should not be 
accused of a lack of zeal for these waters. Indee .0 sometimes carries it to the verge'of a blunder. — 
In the preface, for instance, he first abuses Sar ga on account of that facility of access which ren- 
ders its company " promiscuous," and proceeds then to expatiate in praise of the " immense crowds 
which have liitherto resorted to the White Sulphur." Amid a collection of recommendatory let- 
ters, also, there occurs one from B. Watkins Leigh, in which the Senator somewhat equivocally as- 
serts that the dropsical symptoms with which he went to Fauquier have been continually declining 
" ever since he got home." There can be no doubt, however, that the springs in question have high 
medicinal, and higher fashionable virtues. The scenery is beautiful, the charges are moderate, the 
accommodations good. In fact every thing concerning them is good — with the exception of this 
stupid little book — which is very bad indeed — very. 

The White Sulphur Papers, or Life at the Spriiigs of Western Virginia. By Mark Pencil, Esq. 

Samuel Colman, New York. 

A larger, a handsomer, and altogether a better volume on the same subject, although abound- 
ing, we are sorry to say, in typographical errors. This is the more to be regretted, as the mechani- 
cal execution, otherwise, is of a very superior order. 

" The White Sulphur Papers" are written v.'ith sprightliness, and have much general interest. 
To persons contemplating a visit to the Springs such a book as this is invaluable. It affords, in an 
agreeable manner, all necessary information, besides being full of anecdote and chit-chat. Moreove 
we can aver, upon the authority of our friends of the " Corsair," that Mark Pencil, Esq. is tict 
Proprietor of the Springs, and that he is a gentlemanly personage. We presume, too, that he I 
no private interests to serve in the publication — which, at all events, is very readable, and very cre- 
ditable to both author and publisher. 

A Defence of Female Education. Read before the Columbus Lyceum, by John Southerldnd 
Lewis. Columbus, Georgia. Published by order of the Society. 

This essay does Mr. Lewis some credit. The necessity for any " Defence of Female Education" 
is, to be sure, not very apparent — but he has handled his subject with great ability, and placed that 
which was before clear in a perfectly brilliant light. 









Few of the liteiary men of this country can look back to so large an amount of ancestral talent as 
the subject of this memoii. His grandfather, the Rev. Dr. Smith, who had received a highly finished 
European education, was the first Provost of Philadelphia College, in the University of Pennsylvania, 
which station he filled with distinguished honor to himself and success to the institution for a period 
of twenty -five years. He was a man of rare natural endowments, and these he had carefully and as- 
siduously cultivated, so that he stood foremost among the most eminent persons of his time, as a close 
student, a profound and varied scholar, an acute a]rd vigorous thinker, an accurate observer, and 
a writer of great beauty and energy, who attracted attention by his felicitous style, and secured ad- 
miration by his manly and high-toned sentiments, no less than by his abundant, apposite, but never 
ostentatious knowledge. As a preacher, he possessed a bold, and commanding, mingled with a sub- 
duing power of eloquence, which sometimes led him to break forth in strains of the most startling 
admonition and reproof ; and at others to melt thefeelingsof his audience by displays of the tenderest 
sympathy and affection. All contemporary critics bestowed upon him high praise for his pulpit exercises, 
and more than one of the British reviewers compared him to Massillon and Bossuet, to each of whom 
in certain things he was said to'bear a very striking resemblance. He was also much addicted to scien- 
tific labors, and in the study of astronomy, which he pursued with great ardor, he was instrumental 
in bringing to light the abilities of the then unknown Rittenhouse, and his friendly advice and as- 
sistance were always fully appreciated by that self-taught philosopher. He had, moreover, a very ex- 
quisite taste in the fine arts, and was one of the first to perceive, and the warmest to encourage, the 
dawning genius of Benjamin West, whose early efforts, rude and misshapen as they seemed, satisfied 
the quick eye of the connoisseur that he was destined to fill no ordinary place among painters re- 
nowned for ability. Some of the first productions of the future President of the Academy were made 
at the instance of this patron, and they still hang upon the walls of his former library, which they 
serve to render curious if they do not adorn. Nor with all his variety of learning and elegance of 
taste, did he neglect things that were of more immediate utility. His active mind was strongly di- 
rected to the Internal Improvement of the State, and in a treatise which he published on the subject 
more than fifty years ago, he designated several of the lines of communication which have since then 
been adopted. Altogether he was a remarkable man ; sagacious as well as learned ; at once brilliant 
and profound ; one who mingled with a fervid imagination, a severe discipline of judgment, and en- 
gaged with equal earnestness in the pursuit of abstract literature, or works of practical value. His 
writings, which have been collected into several volumes, have passed thi-ough various editions, with 
the most marked approbation. 

Dr. Smith left several sons, the eldest of whom Wm. Moore Smith was the father of our piesenf 
subject. As might have been expected, this gentleman enjoyed all the advantages of the most liberal 
roi,, T. — NO. III. E 3 

120 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

«ducation which this country could then furnish. Nor were these advantages misplaced in him. In' 
Meriting from his father a 1 've of study, and gifted with a quick capacity, he early distinguished him 
self as a scholar; and as he joined to his ardor in graver acquirements a keen relish for the lighter 
branches of literature, his mind was equally stored with the profound and elegant productions of the 
classics. Early in life he published a volume of poems, which were characterized by much brilliancy 
of fancy, ease of versification, justness of sentiment, and chaste and nervous diction. They were 
re-printed in England, and made the subject of much commendation, a fact at that time of such un- 
frequent occurrence, that it deserves to be remembered. Having enlarged his views and replenished 
his judgment with extensive foreign travel, Mr. Smith came to the bar of this city, and soon rose to 
deserved eminence. The dry details of legal science, and the slavish attendance during term-time 
on the courts, were, however, uncongenial to his feelings, and he retired to cultivate his favorite 
studies amid the thick umbrageousness that surrounded his family mansion on the Schuylkill. Here 
in daily intercourse with the poets and sages of antiquity, and continual observation of the choicest- 
beauties of nature, he passed his life in grateful enjoyment, and here he has left behind him the en- 
during monument of an unsullied reputation. 

KiCHAUD Penn Sjiith is a native of Philadelphia, where he has generally resided. When a boy 
lie was remarkable among his school-fellows for great quickness of perception, which being united to 
a memory of singular retentiveness, gave him peculiar facilities in acquiring the different branches of 
tnowledge to which his attention was directed. In the mathematics he was especially distinguished 
by the ease, rapidity, and accuracy with which he mastered the most complicated and perplexing de- 
tails of the science ; and, as we have been informed by more than one of his class-mates, such were- 
his extraordinary powers of calculation that many of his demonstrations, in this respect, were matters 
of absolute astonishment. In other studies he was also forward; and while he was thus preparing 
for a future ripeness of scholarship, he was at the same time drinking deeply from the various foun- 
tains of belles-lettres literature, which were furnished to him in his well-stored paternal library. His 
love of writing manifested itself while he was yet quite young, and a scries of essays contributed by 
him to the " Union," under the title of the " Plagiary," show very considerable ability of design and 
very correct taste in composition. About the close of the year 1 822, he purchased the Aurora, a well 
known newspaper establishment, of which Mr. Duane had previously to that time been the editor. Like 
many others who have embarked in similar enterprizes, Mr. Smith found this a most unprofitable 
speculation, and after five years of toil and vexation, he abandoned it, though not before it had swal- 
lowed up a considerable portion of his patrimony. During the period of his connexion with this 
paper, notwithstanding he conducted it with zeal and industry, he made numerous contributions to 
the periodical literature of the day, besides producing several dramatic pieces, some of which were not 
only cordially received at the lime of their first representation, but still continue to maintain their 
■places on the stage. i 

Mr. Smith is one of the best dramatic scholars — so to speak — that it has been our good fortune to 
meet with. In this department of literature he has studied with all the masters, both of ancient and 
modern times, and his mind is richly laden with the fruits of his application. With the old English 
dramatists he is especially famihar. He knows them all as he does his nearest and most intimate 
friends. In their native, though sometimes unpolished strength — their clearness of thought — their 
charming simplicity of expression — their healthy tone of sentiment — their undiluted force of dic- 
tion — his conect taste early found abundant means of gratification ; and undeterred by the rubbish 
beneath which many of their beauties lie concealed, he spared no pains until he possessed himself 
fully of their treasures. With such a keenness of relish for this species of literature — with so ample 
a knowledge both of the rules of the art and the works of the artists — with strong powers of obser- 
vation, varied acquirements, a lively imagination, and successful practice in poetical composition, it 
was natural that Mr. S. should have attempted to emulate what he so much admired, and accordingly 
we find that he has written two dramas avowedly prepared after the old English models. These 
plays " The Disowned, or the Prodigal," and " The Deformed, or Woman's Trial," both exhibit much 
skill in construction, considerable invention, and accurate delineation of character ; and they are still 
more distinguished by a just and elevated torre of sentiment, and a cojiious flow of sterling language 
obviously drawn from the " pure v/cll of English undefiled." Both these pieces have been performed 
■with decided marks of success ; and the last named, " The Deformed," received last winter the most 
unequivocal approbation from as intelligent an audience as was ever assembled within the walls of 
Chestnut street Theatre. " The Disowned" and " The Deformed" r.'ere also performed at the Lon- 
don theatres, where they made a favorable impression. Besides these dr-amas, Mr. S. has written a 
tragedy, and numerous petite comedies, and farces. The Tragedy, Cuius Marius, was composed for, 
and at the request of Mr. E. Forrest, for whom the principal character was specially designed. Caius 
Marius was originally brought out at the Arch street Theatre, where it had a run of several nights, 
but such was the weakness of the then company, that it was grossly marred in the peifoimance, and 
Mr. S. withdrew it in disgust from the stage. It has great capabilities for an acting play, abounds in 
■vigorous declamation, and contains many passages of strong and beautiful poetry. We hope shortly 
to see it revived under better auspices, and we confidently predict its success. 

Many years ago Mr. S. published a novel in two volumes, which he called The Forsaken. At that 


time the surpassing gloric? of I\Ir. Cooper had comp'etoly ccliised all other American novelists. Few 
indeed, then ventured to enter upon the path which he had made so completely his own, and fewer 
still could successfully hear up against the overpoweiing weight of his reputation. One or two only, 
and they mo-cd in a dirt'e.-ent sphere, occupied any favorable place in the public regard. Simms, and 
Biid, and numeious others who have since successfully entered the lists against the " Author of the 
Spy" had not tlicn appeared, and all eyes v.eie turned to him as undisputed master of the field. 
Under such discouraging circumstances it is a proof of much meiit in Th.e Forsaken that a large edi- 
tion of it was speedily exhausted. It possesses, in fact, far higher claims to favor than many similar 
publications whicii have since enjoyed more envial)!e popularity. The plot is natural and developed 
without any violence to probability ; the incidents which arc chiefly historical, are skilfully introduced 
and interblended with the progress of the narrative ; the characters are vigorously drawn, and forci- 
bly contrasted ; the descriptions are truthful, and the dialogue well sustained and discriminated. The 
prevailing fault of the book is carelessness of manner, and an inattention to the minor details ; but it 
is strongly maiked with all the characteristics of an original and vigorous intellect. 

In 1836, Mr. S. published two volumes of miscellaneous productions, under the title of " The 
Actress of Padua, and other Tales," which had an extensive sale, and were much commended. In 
tale-writing Mr. S. has few superiors. He selects his subjects with great care, avoiding always such 
as are tiite, but never seeking for novelty in the regions of mysticism or tenor. The narrative por- 
tions of his stories are always simple and unexaggerated ; the persons he introduces are plain, every- 
day, real flesh and blood people, without much pretension or display, but full of homely sense and 
practical w^isdom ; and he alwaj's places them in such situations as to draw from their conduct a 
sound and valuable moral. The style of these lighter productions is remarkably chaste ; neither en- 
cumbered by needless ornament, nor rendered harsh by ill-timed affectation of conciseness, but easy 
without negligence and flowing without diffuseness. 

In the same year that Mr. S. gave to the press the volumes just refened to, he produced^i work 
which has been the subject of much grave speculation. We allude to " Colonel Crockett's Tour in 
Texas," a pseudo-autobiography, or memoir, which purported to have been written by the gallant 
Tennessean, prior to the fatal field of the Alamo. This work which vYas published anonymously, 
and of course, without any view to reputation, was prepared in great haste, b-ut it contains never- 
theless much that is worthy of admiration. As an evidt-nce of Mr. Smith's facility in composition 
it may be mentioned that on the day succeeding that on whicii the idea was first suggested by the 
booksellers, for whom it was written, a portion of this volume was actually in press, and the remainder 
was supphed from time to time," so as to keep even pace with the stereotype founder. Few books 
have gained equal popularity'. In the course of a single year upwards of ten thousand copies were 
sold in the United States, and the demand for it still continues atrtive. Soon after its appearance 
here, it was re-piinted in London, where it was reviewed by the principal cri Jyal journals in terms 
of the most flattering approval. Frazer's Magazine commends it for its quaint humor and graphic 
description; the London Monthly Eeview compares it to Goldsmith for pathos, and to Swift for 
satire; and Chambcis' Edinburgh Journal, completely deceived by its air of sincerity, quotes from it 
as the best account of the then exist'"g state of affairs in Texas. Indeed, although Mr. S. never visit- 
ed our sister republic, it is not unlikely that liis descriptions of her agricultural demesne, and his 
strictures on her civil polity, m^y be to the full as true as most of the accounts of " travelled history" 
which in this book-making ago are so abundant. " Crockett's Tour" abounds in lively sallies of hu- 
mor, intermingled with much acutcness of observation and keen and caustic satire. 

In addition to the works specifically mentioned, Mr. S. has written voluminously for numerous 
periodicals. His poetry, if collected, would make a book of respectable dimensions, and much of it 
would be found superior to the average quality of that commodity. As most of his smaller pieces 
were written on occasional subjects, and aic scattered over vaiious publications, they are not likely 
to be reclaimed. It is by his dramatic efforts, therefore, that his merits as a poet must be determined, 
and judged by these he will be assigned a place in the foremost rank of American writers. 

In person Mr. ymith is about the middle height, of a spare but vigorous frame. His face is a re- 
markably fine one. The features are all regular, symmctiica', and well formed, and the expression 
is eminently intellectual. The accompanying engraving, which is made from an admirable likeness, 
by Williams — a young artist of great promise in this city — in consequence of the heavy masses of 
shadow, represents him as older and sterner looking tlian lie is in reality ; but otherwise conveys a 
very just idea of his appearance. In his social relations no man is more esteemed. Of a frank, ge- 
nerous, and benevolent nature, he attracts and secures the fiienuship of all who know him ; while his 
ready and never-failing wit, and his varied and abundant stores of information, make him a delightful 
and instructive companion. 

Mr. Smith read law with the late WiUiara Eaule, one of cur most distinguished jurists, and was 
admitted to the bar after the usual course of studies. For several years past he has applied himseL 
diligently to the practice of his profession, to the neglect of weekly literary pr.rsuits, though we have 
recently been told that he lias an liistorical work in preparation. In addition to his engagements as 
as a lawyer Mr. S. holds the situation of Secretary to the Comptrollers of Public Schools, a situation 
that yields hira a handsome income. 



[Continued from page 75.] 



It was daybreak on the sea, and a solitary yawl with two men was drifting many leagues from 
land, away to the eastward of Cape St. Roque. The dawn was beautifully serene. The wind yet 
slept on the broad, smooth vestiges of a recent storm, and far around as eye could trace, not a flaw 
of the waking gale skimmed the wearied swells. Here was flung a gay green mantle of undulating 
sea-weed ; there the quick ripple of a shoal of silver minnows dimpled the waving sheet, and some- 
times a sudden billow and a splash would call the eye away to catch the glistening fin of a shark, 
sinking in a whirl. Softly glancing up the eastern sky were the first rosy pencillings of Aurora's 
fingers. In another moment the splendid light of these climes was shooting rocket-like across the 
gorgeous dome, and waving on its spangled floor. The sea was an immense coverlid, fresh and 
dazzling from nature's loom. Its softer tints and bolder brilliancy ever changing and dancing with 
the sweeping roll of the swells, cheated the biiffled eye into the illusion of enchantment. The most 
exquisite paintmg could not have reached the brightness of even its shadows. As if the superb scene 
■were lighted for the coming of a wizzard, the sun burst vividly on the stage, and a train of gorgeous 
clouds floated in his sparkling wake like a noble fleet under convoy. 

And now, quicker and keener, the mariners swept anxious looks around; rising hurriedly on the 
seats without daring to look at each other, they searched the red horizon again, more slowly, more 
closely, with trembling hands shading their eyes. He in the stern of the yawl was a young man 
of elegant form and high-bred features, yet he was pale and ghastly, and his coal-black whiskers and 
soft moustache were shapeless, and blended with a later growth of beard. He had neither hat nor 
cap, and his profuse, neglected hair, was matted with a swollen gash, that glanced from the top of 
his head to the temple. A black silk handkerchief was thrown around his handsome throat in a 
careless sailor's knot. He wore a soiled blue jacket of elegant cut, and a pair of full white trowsers 
were belted to his waist, falling loosely around his limbs, and barely preserving the wasted outline 
of their naturally muscular symmetry. There was a wild, and at that moment, a somewhat fiendish 
glare in his quick black ey e, which seemed to read the soul of others by its own light, as the hunter's 
torch, when it catches the gaze of the quailing stag. The other was a negro of powerful frame, and 
a clever, boyish countenance ; with the exception of a worn French naval cap, he was dressed as a 
sailor in the merchant service, and the usual jack-knife swung by a lanyard from his button hole. 
There were two oars in the boat, and the dew stood thick on their blades and handles, as if they had 
not been used for some hours. No sail, arms, compass, or provisions were to be seen. 

Long and intensely they scanned the ocean. Sometimes a far-off porpoise would fling a volume of 
;foam into the air, or a white sea-bird ride across a distant swell, and then their hearts beat loud and 
-their breath came quick, but alas, its echo was a groan. Nothing — not a speck they saw, till, tracing 
the spotless circle around, their eyes met and read despair. The young man threw himself with an 
impatient curse upon the seat, and the negro ventured a word of hope. 

"Nebber give up, Mas Walter," for it was Walter De Berrian to whom he spoke, "hab verry 
^ood luck dis fur — got away from de cursed willians, and weathered a heavy squall last night, — ain't 
all for nothin — please gor Amighty." 

" No, for the sake of blood," gnashed De Berrian, with a start. " I would Uve for nothing else, — 
my only friend is a friendless negro. Relatives ! — the word chokes me ! — and I, a gentleman by 
birth and rearing, am here, a starving outcast, trampled and damned by the very canaille of hell ! 
Ha ! I would barter eternity for a sabre and foothold on the Tiger's deck." 

The kind-hearted negro was troubled at the fierce words and look of his young companion ; and 
tears coursed over his dusky cheeks, when De Berrian glanced hatefully on even him. The dread- 
ful thought of his insanity was agonizing to the faithful black ; he feared and wept to think that 


fever from his wound and thirst might have turned his beloved jjoung master's hrain. De Berrian 
threw himself half over the stern, and plunged his hot hands deep into the sea. He splashed the 
water over his aching head, and it trickled back with the same cool murmur as the fresia waterfall. 
What was the doom of Tantalus to the mockery of death from thirst on an ocean? 

A sudden thought illumined the eye of the delighted negro. Tearing the woollen lining from his 
jacket he carefully wiped up the heavy dew from the oars and the seats, and applied the swab to De 
Beriian's mouth. 

" Suck 'um, Mas Walter, suck 'um dry, when dats gone, here's de knife, and here's my finger, — 
Peter must die first." 

" Never, my devoted fiiend," answered the youth, wringing the swab in the sea, " we will die 

The negro turned away to hide his tears. Bathing his wound, which was bleeding afresh, De 
Berrian saw a slender braid of Catharine Harman's hair upon his wrist; it encircled the chafed and 
inflamed mark of a handcuff. Many years ago the rosy girl had woven it there, and laughingly 
called him her slave. "Am I such a slave even yet?" he thought, as he dashed aside a tear. " Oh if she 
could see me now, would she not regret 1" Vividly did that delicious hour rise up before him when 
his cousin's fairy fingers were weaving that frail ringlet upon his arm. It was a morning, the fairest 
of fair summer's daughters, when the imperious little queen and her train of fawns and parrots were 
handed into a painted barge, and rowed far out on the tranquil bay, by her brother and cousin. When 
they landed again, her delighted majesty wove for each a braid of her glossy curls and, with bended 
knee, and kiss of her hand, they were dubbed " Knights of the Raven Tress." The spell of memory's 
dream was upon the youth, and dropping his head upon the hard gun-wale he fell asleep with one 
hand trailing in the sea. The negro carefully folded the lining of his jacket over De Berrian's wound, 
to protect it from the sun, and resumed an anxious watch. 

An hour after, he espied a branch of some tropical tree floating near, and reaching It with an oar, 
he found it bore a few redish berries ; perhaps some careless hand had thrown it into the sea, for it 
had many tiny stems from which the fruit had been apparently plucked. The noise awoke the 
uneasy sleeper, and hastily gathering the greater part of the berries in his cap, the negro presented it 
joyfully to Walter. 

" Nay, nay, good Peter, we shall divide them equally." 
" No, massa, — don't lub 'um — dese enough for me." 

Walter ravenously ate the acid fruit, and picking the last from the cap, he started to see beneath 
the blackened stamp of the manufacturer, the name of'' Charles Harman, schooner La belle lantheP 
"Peter, where did you get this capl" breathlessly asked De Berrian. 

" Britishman took mj' bran new tarpaulin, and gib me dat, him said it 'longed to one of de pri- 
soners — only fit for dam nigger." 

" It cannot — it must be !" — wildly spoke the youth, as he bounded to his feet. "Peter! for 
heaven's sake tell" — but the negro was dumb and still, for his eagle eye had caught a sail ! Away 
to the south a broad blue belt, the track of a glorious breeze, was careering towards them, and the 
seamen felt that the feeble point at its farthest edge on which the sunlight trembled must be a sail. 
Motionless as the cascade frozen in its leap, he stood for one straining, intense moment. The 
mere speck fluttered like a ray in the dew-drop shaken by the wind of morning. It vanished, it 
glittered again ; and De BerTian started from his trance at the wild and prolonged shout of " a sail ! a 
sail !" 

O, what a tide of vivid thoughts comes bounding over the soul of the shipwrecked at that exulting 
cry ! The clasped hands, the bended knees, and the fast and eloquent prayers from tongues that 
never prayed before ! The world — that libelled yet delightful world, to which stern hearts had 
bidden eternal adieu, starts up again in its joy and splendor. Wealth, fame, and heaven, dance in 
brilliant fancy's train ; or else some sweet cottage steals upon the sight, and the sailor sees his wife and 
babes. And how quick and dark is the reaction ! Like death in a festive hall, at the next moment 
all is dread and pallor. The distant sail may glide along the ocean's edge, and disappear ; and who 
can tell the misery of such a fear ] The chilling awe that hushes the breathing of a child when a 
beautiful scene of clouds and fairies is suddenly shifted, he knows not how, for the den and incan- 
tations of a demon, is not half so withering as that dreadful doubt. 

With such hopes and fears, flashing and darkening as lightning at midnight, De Berrian and 
Peter hoisted a handkerchief on an oar. They spoke not a word, and their ej'es never for a moment 
left that far low sail. For hours it seemed as still as the floating foam at dawn, but slowly at last 
it lifted higher from the haze of many leagues, and the slender hull became a dark point under the 
silvery bubble of canvas. They strained their eyes again — and yes — hurrah ; her course lay towards 
them. In a delirium of joy the negro caught De Berrian in his brawny arms, and then tears fell 
fast together. She came skimming along hke a sea-bird, and Peter at the next look stamped a furious 
jig that almost capsized the boat, for he saw the stars and stripes poised like a butterfly on the bosom 
of the gale. In a half hour a beautiful armed brig dashed alongside, and Walter and his shouting 
companion clambered over the gang-vc ay of the American Privateer, Sea-Gull. 

W' alter was known and recognized by one of the officers, and his singular story was listened to 

124 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

with much interest. " We belonged," said he, " to the ship Atalanta, of Baltimore. On her return 
voyage from the South seas, a week since, we were crossing the line, when a strange sail which 
seemed to be following us, was reported to windward. Near dusk we made her out, a large top-sail 
schooner, low and black in the water, with long booms and gieat rake of mast. She bore suddenly 
down athwart our course. Suspecting her to be a cruiser, the captain put on all sail, and bore two 
points away. At dawn, however, the schooner overhauled us, showed British colors, and threw a 
shot across our bows. The captain defied them ; the ciew cheered ; they gave us a broadside, and 
boarded. A sanguinary fight ensued, bat they poured upon us in swarms, and we were overpowerd. 
Enraged at our defence, and the loss of some of their best men, they threw us into irons, and treated 
us W'ilh the utmost barbarity, I received this slash across my head from a copper-gilled Spaniard of 
a lieutenant, who was for making us all walk the plank. He was a very devil, and eternally growl- 
ing for our blood. The schooner ^vas the British Privateer, Tiger, commanded by a villain who had 
been dismissed from the Royal navy. She was fitted out from the West Indies." 

" But how did you escape V 

" This man," resumed De Berrian, looking gratefully at Peter, " was cook of the Atalanta. When 
she was taken, he pretended to be mad with joy at his deliverance from slavery, though he is free. 
The British were taken in, and so was Peter, for they shipped him at once, and messed him with the 
prize guard. Peter had conceived a lasting friendship for me; I saw him as often as caution justified, 
and he swore to assist us all at the first opportunity. My friend the Spaniard, Juan De Alva, was 
prize-master of the Atalanta, though the Tiger still kept companj'. My w'ound, which had never 
been dressed, became excessively painful, and at times I was delirious. At the intercession of a 
humane officer my irons were taken off, and I was allowed for an hour or so to come on deck. The 
cursed Spaniard took these occasions to treat me with the basest indignity. He never forgave me for 
a gash I ga^e him in the bloody fray of our capture, which spoiled his prided moustache forever. 
Often I would have snatched a pike and pinned him to the deck, but a moment's thought, or a look 
from Peter, restrained me. 

" Two niglits ago we were close in shore. The night was dark, and a light land breeze was 
springing up. I had been on deck some time, watching several lights scarcely discernible on the 
coast. Tire watch were half asleep, and Juan was below drunk and ill-humored. Peter came to me 
carelessly whistling; as he passed he whispered in my ear to go over the side and clamber aft, if I 
Avould escape with him; he said we cordd get off in the yawl and reach shore before morning, as he 
knew the coast perfectly well. Trembling with hope, I did as he directed, unobserved by a single 
soul. I had reached the bow of the yawl, when I heard a short cough, as of one being choked — it 
was the man at the wheel, whom Peter had gagged and bound. He quickly lashed the wheel, and 
lowered the 3'awl, without noise, till the keel almost touched the water, and then belayed. 

" ' On deck there !' halloed the gruff Spaniard. 

" ' Aye !aye I' answered Peter, in a feigned voice. 

" I thought we were gone. It was a terrible moment. The next thing was a startled 'Jesu Maria,' 
from the companion way — then a stunning blow, and the grating of the hatch as it was fastened 
down. Peter threw himself over the taffrail, and we swung ourselves into the yawl. Hooking his 
feet under the stern sheets he caught the tackle alone and lifted the stern so that I could cast loose. 
With a powerful effort of strength he held on and I cut away the forward fall, till but a few strands 
supported us. ' Let fall,' I whispered, as I severed them at a stroke, and instantly with a splash 
that nearly' capsized us, we found ourselves a hundred yards from the ship. 

"In less than a quarter of an hour, we heard a shout from the Atalanta. I.ights'wcre run up, and 
answered instantly from the Tiger, that was sailing on her lee. Presently we distinguished shouts 
from several boats rowing swiftly in different directions, they seemed at length to converge to a point — 
that point was ourselves. They separated =»gain, and we rowed like Turks, for the chances were in 
our favor. We listened for a moment — but one boat was in hearing, and the long sweep of her oars 
was plainly distinct, for she was coming right upon us. I now thought the game was up, but Peter 
C00I3' drevf in the oars, and lashed them fore and aft, on the seats. Directing me to look out, he 
dipped the gunwale under a wave, and the yawl filled. We held on with our heads just out of the 
water. The short and active clang of the pursuing boat grew fearfully near. She passed within 
pistol shot ; and the men rested on their oars to listen ; by the gleam of a dark lantern which he fr(S- 
quently flashed across the water, I •ruw the fiendish countenance of Juan De Alva. The Spaniard 
yelled a bloody oath, which was chorused by all hands — the boat shot off in another direction — and 
we saw them no more. Peter, chuckling to himself, bailed out the yawl with his cap, and we pulled 
again for the shore. The wind, however, freshened, and we were obliged to stand before it. By 
day neither ship nor shore was to be seen. I,ast night we encountered a heavy gale, and expected 
every moment to be lost. Thank heaven, we are here." 

" The Tiger — from the West Indies'!" — half-mused Captain Parole. 

" Yes," answered De Berrian, "but this deserter can give 5'ou more information than I." 

" Dat him dam name," said Peter, " him tuck many vessels — hab plenty cash, massa — 'sprized"; 
one French schooner last thing "fore us — hab ossifers in 'um hold now — treats 'um wery bad." 

" And what is his force, you black traitor 1" 


" Him totes 'leven guns, and a hundred and large odd men. Call me traitor, massa 1 Traitor like 
to go back again wid present company — ha — ha." 

" Well, ray fine sea minck," laughed the captain, •' we will solicit an interview, and restore you to 
your honor, and your flag." 



Sa:muel Paholk, the hold commander of the Sea-Gull, was a tawny fine looking man, with a 
fierce moustache, short black tuft, and a dare-devil eye. That eye swept the blue ocean at a glance, 
and, disappointed, hid its impatience in a fiown ; but when it caught the coming sail its gleam of 
joy was dark and stealthy as the ciouching search of the tigress. His frame was built with the man- 
liness of a statue, and the bounding activity of an Arab steed. Captain Parole was a daring tacti- 
tician, a stern commander ; and a better swordsman never crimsoned steel. Beloved, or rather 
adored, by officers and crew, but one mind and purpose ruled the brig, and a braver command never 
spread canvas on the sea. Parole was a man eminently gifted by nature. He might have shone the 
sun of the council hall, and won the huzzas of a grateful people. Bland and strangely winning in his 
manners, he could have moved the grace and delight of polished society, the noble votary of woman. 
Yet she never swayed his heart, glory never dazzled his eye ; for the first and darling passion of his 
soul was revenge. Once, indeed, his young bosom thrilled to the impulses of love and ambition ; 
but, in a single hour, he was changed from a happy, dreaming boy, to a daik and revengeful man. 
The story of that change is one of the shameful many that blot the histoiic page. 

On one of those quiet and beautiful streams that steal away from the bosom of the Chesapeake, 
enamored of vales and flowers, was an humble yet tasteful cottage, the birth place of Samuel Parole, 
The lad was sixteen years of age when his father was killed in a naval action in the revolutionary 
war. Weeping in his mother's arms, and pressing to his bosom a fond and lovely sister who had 
shared his cradle, the young Parole saw a British uniform at the door, and heard the oaths and in- 
solence of marauders. A sickening scene of plunder and foul insult ensued. The mother was struck 
to the floor, and her blood streamed upon the sacred hearth, while her maddened son was held down 
by a minion's foot upon his neck. A tall giant of a soldier snatched a familj'- watch from the sister's 
bosom, and caught her in his foul embrace. The poor girl seized a knife in her wild despair, when 
the coward felled her senseless by a blow on her cheek, and bore her from the room. The infuriated 
brother broke at last from his pursuers and fled to his sister's chamber. It was too late — the hellish 
deed was done, and the fiend was gone. The scream and embrace of the agonized lad recalled his 
sister to life and the bitter sense of dishonor. In an instant the resolve of the high-souled girl was 
made. She plunged the knife her grasp had never yet relaxed, into her breast, and her pure hearths 
blood deluged her brother's bosom. 

For hours the young Parole was lurking around the track of the marauding band. At last, making 
a circuit of several miles, he secreted himself in a road-side thicket, and as the troop straggled past he 
singled out the tall murderer of his sister, and shot him through the heart. Fleet as the prairie deer 
he escaped, and enlisted at once in the continental ranks. Draughted in a corps of skirmishers, he 
became a fatal marksman, and never drew a trigger that an enemy fell not. When peace was de- 
clared he vowed enmity to the British till death should cut him down. That dark oath was terribly 
: ulfiUed. 

Young Parole went to sea, and became captain of an American trader. When England took a hand 
in the dazzling game of the French Revolution, Parole disappeared, and for many long years his 
desolate mother mourned him as dead. At the declaration of the war of 1812 he came home, a sun- 
burnt man, with a foreign air and strong French accent. He had served under the tri-colored flag, 
and passed unhurt through the tremendous battles of the Nile and Trafalgar, His fearful oath was 
yet unfulfilled. 

The weather was glorious, and the Sea-Gull flew skimming over her gay blue home. On the 
morning after the rescue of De Berrian, she spoke an iron-hulled, taunt-masted yankec, who that 
night, had dodged a chase in the shape of a large thief-stealing schooner, that sailed like a witch in 
the eye of the wind. The chase was convoying a ship, and Jonathan guessed her to be "a tarnation 
privateer, no offence to the cloth." The adventurous son of cider and ginger-bread held his course 
untroubled by a fear, while the Sea-Gull wore to the southward, and ploughed the foam under every 
rag of her canvas. There is usually sharp fighting when two privateers of diflferent flags come across 
each other. They often have immense quantities of specie, and the rarest spoils of every clime. For 
this reason, aside from national animosity, an action between them is of the bloodiest nature. Many 
such dreadful fights have crimsoned leagues of the ocean that are hardly heard of on shore. In the 
stir of greater events the historian knows not, or fails to record them, and they sleep in the graves of 
their actors. 

126 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

Noon wasted into crimson evening. It was the 25th of Novembei, 1812. The Sea-Gull was 
bowUng down a dozen leagues oti' the Brazils, in latitude 10° south. The sun set at last with a 
frown behind the fleecy edge of a bank of clouds. The look-out thought he saw the glimmer of a sail 
as the last glow went out in the west, but he could make nothing of it. Captain Parole glanced 
around for a moment, musingly paced the deck, and went below, desiring the officer of the watch to 
call him at any change of weather. An hour passed, and it was fast growing into a dismal night. 
The moaning easterly wind still hung on ; the far clouds in ambush to the northwest, peeped wearily- 
over the verge of the sea, and then came rolling on in sullen gloom like the funeral pageant of some 
spirit of darkness. One by one the twinkhng stars were wrathfully put out, till a small clear space 
no bigger than a mainsail was left uncovered, away down to the south and east. The sea was black, 
muttering, and hideous ; an oppressive silence reigned through the brig. The usual song and laugh, 
were hushed. Sometimes a large dark wave would rear up alongside, and sprawl away in a shower 
of sparks, and one might fancy he saw a skeleton ghost of the shipwrecked, rising in a shroud of fire. 
The fitful wind was now hurried like the swelling wail of an Eolian harp, then it fell with a rustle 
as of passing wings ; and the footfall of the watch, the creaking of the wheel, or a sharp flap aloft, 
as if some winged messenger of gloom had ran afoul, alone kept silence awake. 

It was near midnight, when the binnacle light faintly told its whereabout, that a forecastle coterie 
were listening mutely to a yarn of bloody interest. At the tragic denouement the superstitious Peter 
leaped from the circle, unable to stand any more, and leaned upon the weather waist. Something 
between a groan and a laugh escaped him, and he started aghast, for it was mysteriously answered. 
He listened for a dubious moment, when a stealthy " Hard alee !" was whispered in Iris larboad ear, 
and he heard an abrupt dashing of waves and the heavy boom of filling canvas. 

" Sail to windward !" he lustily sung, at the same moment that a tall spectral mass of spars and 
rigging loomed out of the darkness jam abeam. There was a cry and bustle on the Sea-Gull's deck, 
but it was drowned in a tremendous crash, as the cut-water of the strange sail stove in the quarter 
waist, and her flying-jib-boom became entangled in the fore-shrouds. 

Quick as lightning, a band of armed men were jumping aboard, when at the instant a wave leap- 
ed up between the vessels, dashing them apart like the arms of a strong man, and leaving the wreck 
of the jib-boom dangling overboard. A plunge or two, and a gurgling shriek, told that some had 
sprung too late, and fallen short. The boarders quailed at that appalling cry — victoiy was yet in 
their grasp ; — to have locked the hatches and mastered the watch would have been the work of a 
moment, but that precious moment was lost in hesitation. There they stood — few and awed on that 
nan-ow deck — their own vessel goiac ahead, and the drowning yell of their comrades ringing in their 
ears. It was only for an instant. The astonished crew of the Sea-Gull threw themselves on deck 
at the fierce commands of their leader, to be attacked by an enemy scarcely twenty in number. That 
bloody fray was over in a moment. Scorning the call to surrender, the foiled and maddened boarders 
were cut down to a man, hardly knowing whether by friends or enemies. 

" Short and sweet" — tauntingly laughed the dark captain — " they arc British hounds, I see — but 
where did they come from 1" 

" From the Tiger," exultingly answered De Berrian, from the deck, as he unlocked the death- 
clasp of a fallen foe, and stood upon his feet 

" Ha !" shouted Parole, "how do you know 1" 

"Here is my frioid, Juan De Alva," replied De Berrian, lifting the huge limber corpse by the 
open bosom of the shirt, and showing the savage moustached face of the Spaniard — " a prosperous 
cruise to Port Brimstone," he added ; and the dead was plunged heavily overboard. 

A shout now arose — there was no answer ; and the darkness was so intense that the mysterious 
assailant could no where be seen. 

" Beat to quarters," ordered the captain — " run out the cannonades there — clear away the long gun!" 

Hardly had he spoken, when a broadside from the lurking enemy came crashing through the 
rigging. The blaze of her guns lighted for a lurid moment the tall fleet-looking Tiger, covered with 
British colors. She was luffing on the starboard bow. The Sea-Gull fell to leeward, returning a 
raking fire. Again the Tiger opened, and the cannonade was instantly rapid and furious on both 
sides. Firing by the momentary flash of their guns, but little damage was sustained. Captain 
Parole's blood was up ; he gave the order to haul to windward, and lay alongside. The Sea-Gull 
answered not her helm, for it was suddenly and awfully calm. The buoyant brig rocked helplessly 
on the dead-swells, and the airless sails flapped without life on the creaking spars. 

The warning of that calm was not to be mistaken. By mutual consent, the enemies left their 
guns. Captain Parole looked around the sky for a moment, ordered every sail to be taken in, and 
even the top-masts and lighter spars to be housed. Many young sailors started at these orders, for they 
foretold a straggle with a fiercer enemy than man. 

" Bear a hand, my lads," — commanded the cool and inflexible captain — " we have plenty of sea 
room, and the Sea-Gull is at home in a humcane. When it is over she will feed on the carcass of 
the Tiger." 

" Well, eh !" ejaculated Peter, as he reached the yard-arm ; " can't see nothin — Tiger don't shine 
him eyes dis night. Hab saw many dark night fore dis, but dis do take de shine off 'em all !" 


"Avast there oakum hide," roaicd a seaman — " the old port admiral of the 8tyx has piped a 
couit martial to overhaul you for that desertion. D'ye see that hell of a cloud yonder? — why that's 
the constable and his gang coming after. you. Halloo, there goes a blue-light." 

It was a glimmer of lightning, that dimly traced the rigging around them ; a far lurid fksh like 
damp powder straggled away on the grim ocean's edge — then another, nearer and brighter, Hared 
up through an eaibattled array of ponderous clouds. The signal was instantly answered from the 
whole line of the horizon, till the sky was sheeted far and near like the burning of a city under.a 
pall of funeral smoke. The dread army was in motion on its path of death — the thunder came rumb- 
ling wiUi a distant tramp like the cumbersome rattle of artillery. Every thing aloft was snug. Cap- 
tain Parole took the wheel, and ordered the standing jib to be half hoisted, and the men to stand by 
with the down-haul. It was done,. and then the enemies were reeling and dippingitheir yard-arms 
within musket shot of each other: their crowded decks, grim cannon, painted masts, and copper 
bottoms glancing in the vivid lightning. A mass of ragged skirmishing clouds flew overhead, aad 
next came the vast opaque body, shooting up in tremendous pillars, and whirling grandly along. 
The' stunning howl of the storm was terribly distinct. All was blaze and deafening bursts — the sea 
was levelled into a foaming plain, for the tornado's path vras but a quarter of a mile distant. 

"Down jib!" thundered the American captain, when the first mad puff twirled the brig safely 
before the gale. More terrific than the earthquake's age-pent fuiy was the; burst that followed. 

The Sea-Gutl trembled from topmast to keel, and bounded away like the fawn starting from; the 
ravine's brink. The wind screamed its shrillest note, and the zigzag glare of the lightning ran down 
the reeking shrouds, and hissed upon the spray. Immense sheets of spray whirled above in a race 
with sweeping clouds, and fell conquered on the buried vessel. Torrents of rain brawled upon the 
decks, and towering foam-cliffs sprung unseen astern and broke impetuously over her — butthe Sea- 
GuU rose again and shook her dripping pinions unharmed. 

With a hand of iron, her captain bore upon the helm; his cap was blown away, and his heavy- 
hair parted over the forehead and streamed flat upon his cheeks. His eye was lit with that strange 
excitement that finds companionship in the terrible. Fearless and exulting, the commander pointed 
over the quarter, and there, at a cable length, the Tiger was bursting from a shroud of foam like the 
dead of the ocean at the last day. Her large white topsail was rent in ribbands from the yards, and 
playing with the lightning's blaze. She bore herself gallantly through, and strode away in defiance. 
Faster than the fleetest wave the enemies scudded side-by-side. It was a terrific moment ; yet stmnge 
to say, fierce passions were then at work. At one of the frightful pauses of the hurricane, the prir 
vateers exchanged broadsides. The deluging rain had ceased as suddenly as it came, and for an 
hour they fired at every chance, the lightning showing the mark. The furious wind at length some- 
what abated, and the thirsting enemies bore up a point to close, and end the combat by the bloody 
method of boarding. The waves were short and tremendous, and the guns could not be worked. 
It seemed a reckless attempt to lay alongside; but the only fear of either was that the other might 

Captain Parole called his ready men around him. He stood by the wheel, dressed in a shining 
boarding cap, light pumps, close fitting shirt, and trowsers girded very low in the waist with a sabre 
belt, in which were thrust two pair of long, glittering pistols. He drew a large and splendidly 
mounted sabre, which he stuck quivering in the deck beside him ; his right hand fell upon the hilt, , 
and his full chest swelled as he cast a flashing glance on that dark array, " Men," he spoke in a 
voice of deepest volume, " there are graves in the sand for some of us ; our foes are as eager as we — : i ? 
I lead the boarders — I want fifteen or twenty men for a post of honor." : /ii 

With a thrilling cheer the number was instantly made up, and theeecond lieutenant, a youth o£;ii 
fire, stood at their head. -ijot 

" Away to the fore-top," proudly continued the captain, " and spring into their rigging when w^ 
grapple. When I shout ' Ironsides,' drop to the deck, and receive the arms of the prisoners, or buiyi' 
me in the ocean." 

The men bounded away to their perilous duty. The heavy armed boarders stood close and eager, ; 
and the hostile vessels were rapidly closing. It was a scene of sublime and fearful interest. " Ready 
there, gunners," was the cry as their yard-arms cracked together, and each shot forth a last and 
deadly broadside. On the next wave, the Sea-Gull and the Tiger grappled fore and aft. 

With a bound and shout, Captain Parole touched the Tiger's deck amidships, followed by about 
forty of his crew. They stood for a moment on the open main deck between two dark bodies of 
men, who were about to board the Sea-Gull fore and aft at once. A rank of musquetry forward 
wheeled and fired with their gleaming barrels thrust into the faces of the boarders ; the murderous 
discharge flung many to the deck, and the flash revealed a strong body of men behind, wedged 
together, and grim with steel. Captain Parole loudly cheered and fired a shot, when the Amerieans 
saw the mass of men behind bursting through the opened ranks of the now useless musquetry, sabre 
in hand. They were led by a whiskered giant in a captain's uniform. At the same fierce whoop 
and bound the foes met like whirlwinds ; as each American crossed steel with his man he thrust 
a pistol to his throat and fired — they were clashing with the second rank. 

VOL. v. NO, II. F 1 

128 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

" Away there, boarders !" shouted the British leader to the corps on the quarter-deck — " board ! 
board ! and the game is up ! — leave us to do the honors to these rogues." 

But the manoeuvre was anticipated. The yelling Tigers were crouching for a spring, when the 
Sea-GuUs pounced upon them dozen after dozen, till there was hardly loom to whirl a sabre on the 
slippery deck. In a moment the crowded schooner was an arena of the most desperate fighting — a 
hundred and fifty men were moving to and fro in that butchering work. When the ghastly light- 
ning flared again, the thick blood was jetting and bubbling from the scuppers. 

" Ironsides /" now thundered Parole, more hoarsely than the bellow of the storm. 

■" Ironsides ! We are coming ! Hurrah P'' echoed the young and enthusiastic De Berrian from 
the quarter deck, as, with Peter forever by his side, he fought with a nervous and powerful arm. 
The stirring watchword rang again from around and aloft, answered terribly by the defying yell of 
the enemy. The battle swept on, darker, bloodier, yet the party in the rigging came not. They had 
been intercepted by a nest of Tigers on the same errand. Curses and the ringing of sabres — scat- 
tering shots, and often a dead body falling with a whirl in the struggle below, or plunging singly 
overboard, gave evidence of a savage fight aloft. Long, long, was that battle undecided. The 
screams of rage and pain sounding above the brawl of the tempest — the infernal gloom, and ever 
and anon the blucish glare of lightning, or the while flash of fire-arms, disclosing hideously uplifted 
sabres, faces begiimmed and fierce, and bloody men locked, falling, stiffening in death, displayed a 
revel of fiends rather than a human fight. 

Struggling abaft the foiward hatch, and vainly contending with superior numbers, was the Ame- 
rican leader and his band. The unheeded slain were cumbering the deck, yet no shout of victory 
rang over the din. Parole was in his element, and at every stroke of his terrible sabre he yelled the 
dark oath of his bhghted youth. 

" The wedge — the wedge — give them the wedge !" he shouted, leaping before his men as they 
ranged away in a triangular body behind him. " Well done my boys — drive on !" and, almost 
alone, he cleared a honid path through the astonished ranks. Few men could follow him in that 
reckless feat. The mad captain turned when no enemy stood before him, and at once he saw the 
fatal error of his success. Part of his men were surrounded away amid the foe, and those that ga- 
thered beside him were panting and few. For the first time that strange man felt fear ; yet when 
his tremendous voice shouted again, " Keep together my brave boys, and mow down to the gang 
way," there was not a qxiiver in ifs tone. The work was impossible to all but him. 

The British were furious and unshaken; in another moment all would be lost. In that agonizing 
thought the American captain was fast losing self-command. The dying cries of iiis beloved men 
bereft him of reason ; he was maddened, and the time for the prodigy of his valur had arrived. At 
mce, as if the resistless lightning dwelt in his :^ingle arm, he bounded away, and fought with the 
headlong fury of a maniac. 

" Clear the deck, or sink with the dogs in their kennel," he thundered, cleaving down a heavy 
Biiton who sought to grasp with him. The taunt went alike to friend and foe ; for, at once, from 
Doth sides, a sickening shout of " No quarter," rent the air. The tall Biitish commander, in the 
hellish struggle that ensued, singled out the American, and the fire whizzed from their sabres. 

" Dogs are we," muttered the Brilon through his clenched teeth, " then thus we throttle midnight 

" Dogs ye are!" roared the infuriated Parole, hurling a discharged pistol in the other's face, and, 
ere- he could recover, the American swept his skull skimming overboard, and stamped on the pros- 
trate body. Like a tortured fiend unbound. Parole now burst among the contending mass. Fight- 
in^dn his frenzied might, an invisible power seemed to guard him. Pistols blazed in his face, and 
reeking sabres shivered over his head, yet he coursed without a scar. 

It was a last and critical moment when a straggling body of Tigers came running forward, and a 
stira-ing hurrah of victory rang from the quarter deck. In the wild chorus, mingled the deep toned 
voice of De Berrian, cheering to the rescue of their captain and his followers. They were not a mo- 
ment too soon, for Parole was singly engaged with a host, and the rest were surrounded, beaten, and 
falling at every blow. The impetuous victors hurled themselves upon the British rear, and then 
came the last dread struggle of war. It was the crisis — it was past ; the vanquished and bleeding 
Britons threw down their sabres at the offer of quarter, only when they could not raise an unwound- 

ed arm. 

And again that wild, screeching, unearthly yell of victory echoed over the dismal ocean. A fainter 
answer went up from the shrouds, and seven mutilated Americans staggered to the deck, and fell 
into the arms of their comrades. They were all that lived of the intrepid corps that were posted in 
the foretop. They came alone, which told the story of their bloody victory — their young lieutenant 
came not with them. 

[To be conlinued.] 




He hath gone to the place of his rest, 

He is safe in the home of his God ; 
And we who have loved him, forsaken, oppressed, 

Submissive would bow to the rod. 
Though his accents can cheer us no more. 

His love yet may speak from the grave ; 
And thus on the broad wing of Faith may we 

To One who is mighty to save ! 

Our friend and our father we heard 

On earth, paint the glorips of heaven ; — 
But now the lone church, lilte a wandering 

To the home of the desert is driven. 
Entranced on his visions we hung ; 

Our hearts and our hopes were above; 
For the words of Persuasion fell soft from his 

And the soul of his teaching was Love. 

In vain the stern Tyrant assailed 

With threats of the dungeon or grave — 
He spoke bat the word, and the timid ne'er 
In pangs that had mastered the brave. 
The babe hath endured, while its frame 
fe%.With the scourge and the torture was torn — 
The maiden, the mother, in chariots of flame 
To glory triumphant were borne. 

For what were thy terrors, O Death 1 

And where was thy triumph, O Grave ? 
When the vest of pure white and the conquering 

Were the prize of the scorned and the slave. 
Oh ! then to our Father was given. 

To read the bright visions on high ; 
He gave to our view the full glories of heaven ; — 

We heard and we hastened to die ! 

Some died — they are with thee above — 

Some live — they lament for thee now — 
But who would recall thee, blest Saint, from the 

That circles with glory thy brow 1 
Long, long didst thou linger below, 

But the term of thy exile is o'er. 
And praises shall mix with the tears that nrust 

From the eyes that behold thee no more. 

Praise — praise — that thy trials are past ! 

Joy — joy — that thy triumph is won ! 
The thrones are completed — for thine is the last 

Of the twelve that encircle the Son ! 
O Lord ! shall the time not be yet 

When thy church shall be blessed and free 1 
Thou who canst not forsake, and who will not 

Come quickly — or take us to Thee ! 


No ! — think not I could ever be 

False to my Saviour's honored name. 

For aught that thou canst offer me — 
A little life — a little fame : — 

'Twere weak indeed to lose for them 

A never-fading diadem. 

Thou hear'st my fixed resolve ; — and now 
The guards — the rack — the flame prepare ; 

And count me weak and false as thou, 
If I fall back, or tremble there. 

Go thou, thy bleeding Lord disown ; 

Be mine the faithful Martyr's crown. 

Ay ! thou may'st smile — but not in scorn, 
Proud minion of the despot's will ; 

Thy direst vengeance have I borne. 
And stand prepared to bear it still ; 

My pride, my triumph it shall be, 

To die for Him who died for me. 

And if one passing pang I feel, 
Deluded man ! 'tis felt for thee ; 

I stand prepared the truth to seal. 
But what shall thy departing be ? 

Blest Saviour ! Lord of earth and heaven, 

Oh ! be his sins — and mine — forgiven ! 




The story which follows. is true in every particular, and can be supported, if necessary, by te^sti- 
mony of th^ most respectable character. The individual who therein plays the principal part has 
he^n variously distinguished. Men of fashion study his 'elegance of manner, and philosophers es- 
teem his profound erudition. He is the nephew of that illustrious man and great orator, M. Royer 
Collard ; but he is .something more than the nephew of a great man^hc is himself eminent for 
genius and acquirements , in a word, it is M. Hypolite Royer Collard, one of the most distinguish- 
ed professors of the medical faculty of Paris, and at the same time, and by an anomaly purely Pa- 
risian, the mgst exquisite dandy that ever trod the Boulevard of Ghent. 

My story, then, js matter of history, and having thus premised, I enter upon the subject. At the 
same time, let it be understood that I intend no attack upon the reputation or honor of M. Royer 
Collard. The mystification on which this narrative is founded, and of which he was the victim, 
■was not .aimed at thei -Professor, but at tlie Roue. My aim shall be the same. 


If Paris be the wonder of the world, the opera is the wonder of Paris. The opera is the essence 
of that society, which is in itself the extiact of all other society. 

One of the front boxes of the Parisian Eldoiado has received a singular surname — that of the 
Infernal Box. Not because it is haunted by those tempting demons with angelic features, whose 
seductions have gained so many souls to Lucifer. No woman has ever entered the Infernal Box. 
The demons of this hell are good devils enough, who, in point of virtue, have hardly triumphed 
over any virtue but that of an opera nymph. These demons are by no means malicious. The In- 
fernal Box is thus termed because in it they make, tin hncit d^enfer — literally, " a hell of a noise." 
For a considerable length of time it has been the rendezvous of a set of roystering blades, generally 
of high rank, who thus endeavor to continue in our own age the traditions of the Regency. The 
Don Juans of the Cafe Anglais, free livers of some renown, meet there of evenings, and assemble 
to display their chivalric graces and their folly. 

The life of these men, and iheir marmers, cause no little astonishment to a stranger who has not 
comprehended the object of this society, which, through a peculiarity which it were easy to explain, 
carefully conceals its good qualities, in order to display with ostentation its bad ones. Pure coquet- 
ry ! for beneath this apparent frivolity there exists an incontestible superiority, and even a real and 
bitter sadness. 

To behold the occupants of the Infernal Box assume a rudeness almost disgusting, and point their 
opera glasses with insolent effrontery at the features and dress of the ladies — to hear their shouts of 
laughter whilst every one else is silent— this, I say, would excite in a stranger mingled feelings of 
pity and indignation. He would take these men to be some of thpse illustrious nullities, who pro- 
menade their uselessness, their idleness, and their yellow gloves, from the wood of Boulogne to 
Frascati and the opera. But. pity would ere long give place to astonishment. In fact, these dandies 
are men. After Byroii and Pejham, th§ir. masters, and models, they have made of folly a sy^^tem 
and a mode of life. 

Who form this society at the present day, I know not ; hut at the time of my , history, (a year 
previous to the revolution of July,) the infei;pal phalanx was composed of men who have Mnce, be- 
come celebrated under various titles. . Cave and Ditmer, the witty. authors of "Soirees de Neuilly," 
were of the party. Mignet, the historian,. was one of the faithful. Romieu, the king of good livers, 
•who is now changed into a magistrate, and thunders against the '.'excesses of pur evil passions," he 
■who was one evening found dead drupk at a corner, surmounted by two lamps with the following 


insciiption, " carriages do not pass hcie," — this Romieu, who in days of yore caused so much cha- 
grin to municipal authorities, and so many sleepless nights to prefects of police — Romieu, formerly 
the most joyous man, and the greatest mystificator in all France and Navarre, and at present, by a 
just recompense, the most mystified man in Christendom — this Romieu was a leader in the infernal 

Montalivet, now minister, a man of racy spirit then, was the right hand of Romieu. Editors of 
the opposition, and they who espoused legitimacy, after having crossed pens in the morning, came 
in the evening to the Infernal Box, to a strife of wit and puns. (Puns were in fashion then.) Some 
aristocratic rakes, and finally, M. Hypolite Royer Collard, completed the sacred phalanx. All these 
men occupy, at this present day, with much talent, important and difiicult posts : which proves that 
the hide of a graceless -varlet, turned inside out, will make excellent stuff for a statesman. 

M. HypoUte Royer Collard was the Don Juan of the society, and his manners conformed to this 

One evening, a piece that drew all Paris was played at the opera. The house was full, and the 
Infernal Box in full complement. The infernals were in humor for wit and insolence. More than 
once their shameless bursts of laughter had disturbed the general emotion. The pit growled^ the 
stalls murmured, the boxes were in agitation and whispered. Some young men in the galleries be- 
gan to cast towards the Infernal Box menacing glances. The insurrection threatened to become ge- 
neral. But the infernals were accustomed to these storms, and prepared to make head against the 
impending one. Suddenly, there was a movement in the house. Two persons had just entered the 
only box which had remained empty. Every one has had occasion to remark the sensation which 
is experienced on seeing one Ijox empty, whilst the rest of the house is full to overflow. Whoever 
then comes in to occupy the vacant place is sure to attract attention, at least for some moments. All 
eyes were immediately turned towards the new comers. One was a man, the other a very young 
woman, of great beauty. This incident, although of no unusual occurrence, sufficed to change the 
current of popular feeling. The opera-glasses of the Infernal Box were immediately levelled at the 
lady whose arrival had been so apropos, and nothing else was thouglrt of but to obtain some infor- 
mation respecting her. 

*' I have never seen her before," says Romieu. 

" Nor I," replied every one else in the box. 

" It must be some pretty provincial, just arrived !" 

" Pshaw! behold her elegance and grace! I will hold you Hypolite's horse against Talivet's til- 
bury, that this fair flower has opened in the Fauxbourg St. Germain ! Is there a shape like that in 
the provinces V 

" Respect the departments ! They improve daily, and I am acquainted with some women who 
have beautiful eyes and a very passable figure." 

" Every man for himself. The viscount is about to begin the history of his love adventures !" 

" Messieurs," observes the viscount, " I swear by the head of Romieu, that this woman does jiot 
belong to the noble Fauxbourg — probably I know her — she is decidedly, gentlemen, a rose of the 
province. Happy the man who may first breathe the delicious perfume." 

" There's a beautiful poetical flower for _you," cries Mignet; then turning to a young man ele- 
gantly dressed, he added, " put that into your book." 

The young man addressed is a poet who makes adorable elegies, impressed with ineffable sadness, 
during the brief respites which he obtains from speculations on exchange, gambling, and opera girls, 
To read his productions, one would suppose him to be consumptive, and a lover of the pale rays of 
the moon. He is a Hercules, who leads the life of hell itself. 

" For heaven's sake," replies he, " no poetry to-night ! I feel gloomy yet with my last ode to 

" Is it possible," cries Romieu, " that people make odes to melancholy 1 'Tis horrible, upon my 
SGul ! An ode to champagne might pass !" 

" Champagne !" cries Mignet, " shame upon you ! Champagne is naught but a chimera, a mere 
deception, fit only for pensioners I" 

" Who blasphemes champagne 1" demands Romieu, with a majestic air. " Apropos to charopagixe, 
I invite you to sup to-night with the viscount. Come, it is time — come, Mignet !" 

" Well," says ^fignet, rising with an air of resignation, " we must occasionally sacrifice to po- 

As the company was departing, Romieu observed that Hypolite Royer Collard remained in the 

" Come, Hypolite !" cries he. 

" I am not with you this evening ; I need all my senses !" 

" And what the devil are you about to do 1" 

Hypolite leaned towards Romieu and whispered something in his ear. 

" Gentlemen," cries Romieu, turning to the joyous band, " Hypolite has just poured his heart inta 
mine ! He is smitten with the fair unknown, and he must go to night to sing a romance, beneath 
her chamber window. He wishes to know if some of you will lend him a guitar !" 

132 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

" Don't be a child," ciies the viscount ; " come to supper ! You will lose your time and your 
trouble !" 

" Perhaps !" 

« Will you bet?" 

" I will !" 

" A hundred louis !" 

" Done !" 

The two epicureans touched hands, and Romieu arranged the terms of the bet as if it were an or- 
dinary one. For them, in fact, the stake was not very heavy — a hundred louis and a woman's ho- 
nor ! 

« Remain, then," said Romieu, as he departed, " and recollect that you have fifteen days only !" 

When the fair unknown, leaning on the arm of her escort, quitted the opeia, she observed a man 
who made himself a path towards her through the crowd, and regarded her with passionate earnest- 
ness. Then she cast down her eyes, and dared no longer to look around. In going from the thea- 
tre to her hotel, it appeared to her also that a carriage followed her own. These two incidents trou- 
bled her a little, but she soon forgot them ; and when she fell asleep, she dreamed neither of the 
opera, nor the stranger. The angels of dreams, during her repose, cauied her, on their white wings, 
far from Paris, under the pure sky of her native town. But when she arose, all fresh and rosy, and 
ran to the window to breathe the fresh morning air, she perceived ai man passing under the balcony, 
and recognized the stranger. 

" Ah, my God !" cried she, « this gentleman has strange manners ! I am afraid there would be a 
quarrel, or I would speak to my brother about it !" 

,Louise de ***** had as vet read no romances. 


If there exist in Paris (this unjustly slandered city) nruch corruption, it is not that less virtue is 
found there than elsewhere ; but it is that vice there knows how to be amiable, and how to encircle 
its enemy with snares often inevitable. 

In Paris, exists a class of men who have made the art of seduction a perfect science. They at- 
tack a woman as a fortified place. They know precisely how many curves and parabolas their sighs 
must describe before firing the heart of their firture conquest. Love is for them an algebraic equa- 
tion, and their plan of attack is always graduated in proportion to the means of resistance. 

And these men are more dangerous, inasmuch as their infamous calculations are not always the 
result of a frigid egotism. Commonly, they owe their experience to long suffering and numberless 
deceptions. By the wounds inflicted on their own hearts, they have learned to know the vulnerable 
points of the hearts which they attack. If pitiless, it is because they have not been pitied. They 
retaliate upon others the mortal blows which they have received. They not only seduce, they avenge 

There exist, however, obstacles, against which all their science fails. And as famous fencers are 
generally killed by youngsters who know not how to hold a sword, thus all the experience of these 
famous seducers is set to nought and frustrated by the ignorance and simplicity of a school-girl. 

About noon, Louise de ***** left the hotel, accompanied by lier brother, and visiting the richest 
shops in Paris, there made numerous purchases. She observed that a man followed her at a dis- 
tance, and stopped when she stopped. As often as she came out of a shop she hoped to be relieved 
from the impertinent pursuit of this stranger, but to her sur-prise, he still followed. Finally, she 
came to the celebrated shop of Susse ; the crowd was great, and it behoved to wait a little. But 
what was her amazement when she perceived M. Hypolite Royer Collard (for it was he) approach- 
ing her in silence, pretending to examine the objects placed on the counter. 

Louise de ***** held in her hand one of those bags which are called reticules. As she held it 
out to the clerk to have her purchase therein placed, Hypolite, who was near her, took the purchase 
from the hands of the clerk, and handed it to Louse de *****. All this was done in a very natu- 
ral way. At this moment, the brother of the young girl returned, and cast upon Royer Collard a 
glance almost threatening. 

This scene, so ordinary in appearance, was not however deficient in a certain degree of interest. 
Royer Collard turned about coolly, as if he had performed a simple act of politeness, yet, notwith- 
standing, in the packet which he handed to Louise de *****, he had slipped a letter. At this inso- 
lence, the young girl grew pale with indignation, but she had noticed her brother's glance, and 
dreading an explosion, the result of which might be terrible, she restrained herself. To return, or 
to destroy the letter was impossible; a scene would inevitably ensue. On that Hypolite had trusted. 
The young girl put up the package, at the same time casting upon Royer Collard a glance of con- 
tempt, which seemed to say, <' I take your letter because I cannot do otherwise ; but you are beneath 


" That is possible," replied Hypolite Royer Collard, in the same language ; " nevertheless, you 
have received my letter !" 

That evening, when Hypolite met the infernals,he replied to Romieu, who demanded news of his 
adventure — " The aflair is in excellent train ! I believe I shall win the bet — I have a superb plan 
there," added he, striking his forehead. 

Unfortunately, Hypolite was unable to put his plan into effect, for he learned the next day that 
Louise de **'■** and her brother had quitted Paris, and no one had been informed of their destina- 


' Some days after this event, a scene sufficiently singular occurred at Brest, in the saloon of Ma- 
dame de *****, among some ladies who had met togethci-. They were seven in number, and witfi 
the exception of one lady, no one was over twenty-live years of age. Tears are becoming to a wo- 
man, but I believe that laughter is still more so. These ladies, then, were laughing so heartily that 
teais actually came into their eyes. Sometimes a calm was gradually re-established ; their features 
resumed foi a few moments a gravity which endured but a short space. A demure smile, or a word 
spoken in a low voice, was the signal for renewed merriment. To look at them thus, these sprightly 
creatures were charming. One of them, a brunette, erect as the palm, u black-eyed beauty, sfeemEd 
to take the lead in the general merriment. Twenty times had she attempted to enforce silence, and 
finish a sentence as many times commenced ; in vain did this young girl essay to put on a serious 
"visage ; all that she could accomplish was to pout a little, which became her charmingly. At this 
moment a young man entered. On his appearance, the effort made to check the mirth only served 
to give it double force. At lirst he gazed in amazement, but the example was contagious, and lie 
soon laughed more heartily than any. This lasted for more than a quarter of an hour. 

" Ah, my God ! how good it is to laugh !" cried one of the foolish creatures, as she wiped away 
the tears which came to her eyes. 

" Cousin," said the young man, approaching the lady of whom we have already made mention, 
" there must be some mischief afoot, that you laugh so heartily ! May I be made acquainted with 
the cause of so much gaiety ] 

" I give you a hundred guesses, Henry; I give you a thousand ! Guess!" 

" But you know very well, cousin, that I never guess a riddle!" 

" Well ! it is too ridiculous ! Louise has a lover !" 

" Certainly, a very extraordinary incident !" rephed the young man, carelessly. " Whose head 
would she not turn ] I make no allusion to myself — that would be awkward for a pretender — more- 
over, it is my profession," added he, putting his hand to his heart, and looking slily at Louise, who 
was blushing like the rose. 

'•' Oh yes, certainl}^," said the cousin, who would not see the signs which Louise was making to 
her: " but this one is not a dying lover, to say the least. He goes straight ahead, and has already 
come to love letters !" 

" Ah, indeed]" exclaimed the young man, with an emotion which he was unable to repress, and 
which caused new bursts of laughter. 

Henry leaned majestically against the mantel, observing, " God forgive me, cousin, but I really 
must believe that you have lost your senses !" 

" Don't stir!" exclaimed the young giil, "don't stir! you are superb in that position ! You re- 
semble precisely the portrait of Tony Johannot !" 

" But what letter is this ? and who is this man ]" demanded Henry, impatiently. 

" None of your business, my little cousin ; we have our own secrets ! Nevertheless, if you pro- 
mise me something, I will give you the letter, with the signature." 

" Whatever you please." 

" You hear him, ladies ! Well, I demand that you play Boston for the space of eight days with? 
our good aunt Beaupre !" 

" Oh, my God !" cried Henry, in alarm. " Nevertheless," resumed he, working up his courage 
by degrees, " I will play Boston — I will play Loto, if necessary — I will make riddles — I resign my- 
self in all things: but, for God's sake, give me the letter !" 

The cousin took the letter from her bosom. " There it is !" said she. 

The young man stepped forward to seize it. 

" One moment, cousin ! I have yet to impose another condition." 

" No more conditions ; Boston is enough !" cried Heniy, pursuing his cousin, who ran across the 
room, but was soon caught. 

Henry opened the lettei with some agitation. Affecting gaiety, he did not the less feel that his 
heart was beating with unusual force. " H. Royer Collard," exclaimed he, perceiving the signature, 
then he turned to Louise, and inquired how the letter had come into her possession. The couski. 

134 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

pitying Louise's embarrassment, told what the reader knows already. However, the countenance of 
the young man, for an instant gloomy, gradually cleared up. 

" You have done well, my dear Louise, to avoid scandal. This Royer Collard is the nephew of 
the orator. He is a man of talent, but boasts a sovereign contempt for wOman. Above all, he is 
passionately fond of notoriety, and it is fortunate that your brother perceived nothing." 

Here is the tenor of the note, which Henry read in a loud voice : 

Mademoiselle — I love you, and I must tell you so. I beg neither pardon nor excuse for my 
Tboldness ; my passion excuses itself. At all events, I will love you forever, near, or at a distance. 
I offer you my life, accept it or not-^and I will be yours as you shall be mine. This I swear to you 
before God. H. Roxer Collard. 

" Admirably absurd !" exclaimed the cousin. 

*' Not so absurd !" repUed the old lady. " In these affairs there can be nothing too extravagant. 
If this M. Royer Collard, who is a man of genius, has written such an absurdity, he has a reason 
for it I Be assured of that !" 

" r faith," remarked Henry, " phrases are like liquors — bad ones attack the head ; moreover, I 
have known Royer Collard, and he is not awkward in these affairs. But, look ye ! who in the devil 
is he addressing himself to 1 To that fair angel there, who has, I am sure, never read a romance ! 
You have never read one, have you, Louise 1 The most comical thing in all this, is, that Royer 
Collard, who has his affairs arranged in peifect order, has always in readiness letters of this kind. 
He has two drav/ers — one for married, the other for unmariied ladies. His correspondence is al- 
ways prepared in advance, and serves for every passion. This is economy in time and imagination. 
His letters are ticketed and numbered. For a letter like this, he opens case No. I — the threat of 
suicide is, I beheve. No. 27 ; the letter of adieu is No. 30, the last of the series. I know two ladies 
who have received from him letters like this, which has no longer the advantage of being unpublish- 
ed, for it certainly has reached its hundredth edition." 

■" The impertinent fellow !" exclaimed the brunette, " Oh ! if we could only play him a good 
trick !" 

" Ah, yes ! we must make sport of him," cried all the ladies, with most touching unanimity. — 
" But how 1 — there is no way of doing it ! — 'tis impossible !" 

" Silence !" exclaimed the brunette, with a musing air ; " I have an idea !" 

Then all the chairs came closer together — all these pretty heads approached each other. The 
cousin spoke for more than an hour — without interruption ! — and when she had concluded, all arose 
with exclamations of delight. 

The elder ladies smiled — the younger ones jumped about like children, clapping their hands to- 
gether, and exclaiming, " What sport we shall have !" The soft light of a lamp cast its mellow 
jadiance on the joyous group. 

" I," cried Henry, " will be your secretary." 

* * * * * * * 

All this time Royer CoUaid was in a strange perplexity. It was not the probable loss of his hun- 
dred louis which he feared, but the pleasantries with which the infernals were sure to assail him. — 
For ten days, he had not daied to appear at the Box. He was, above all, afraid of Romieu, and 
he perceived and avoided him at a great distance. One day, however, he met him when it was im- 
possible to shun him. 

" Well," exclaims Romieu, " when do you come to claim your hundred louis 1 — this is the day 
on which they are due you. What ate you doing'? What has become of you? Happy mortal ! 
you are in the honeymoon, I presume ! Truly, I recognize you no longer — you are of an antedi- 
luvian constancy ! Love must not thus wrong friendship ! Oi, can it be possible that your vanity 
has received a check 1 Was she cruel 1 That would be unfashionable ! Ah ! I perceive you have 
lost your wager ! It is certainly a misfortune ! If you are not in funds, console yourself, my dear 
fellow ! Here am I — and will I not pay for you 1 A friend is a friend, or he is not !" 

" Let me be!" said Hypolite, impatiently. " To-night I will go to the Box." 

Hypolite had decided upon the plan which he thought best to adopt. 

" I will go there to-night — they will laugh at me — but what matter 1 An hour is soon passed." 

When he returned home, they handed him a letter, dated at Rennes. " From whom can this 
te 1" thought he; " I know no one at Reimes." But when he had read it, he exclaimed aloud with 

" 'Tis she !" cried he. " Oh ! I see we need despair of nothing!" and he kissed the letter. 

His servant beheld this in amazement. For years he had never seen him kiss a love-letter. 

" Fool !" said Royer Collard, who divined his thoughts, " it is not for the woman, but because 
she has made me gain my wager ! Now I shall laugh at them !" and he cut two capers across the 

Vanity can render a man foolish, as well as love. With an air of triumph, Royer Collard show- 
ed himself in the Infernal Box. 

(To be Continued.) 


How often^ when the holy cahn of the evening hour has wooed me from the world, have I stolen 
away from the monotonous hum of the village, and strolled amongst these habitations of the depart- 
ied. Many a moonlight hour have I here consecjated to chaste and holy thought. But never before 
methinks did this silent city of the dead so alluiingly invite to meditation as now. The eastern sky 
is just beginning to Wush^ — the minstrel of the wood, perched upon yonder bending bougb, carols 
melodiously its matin hymn ; and the timid lark, affrighted by the unwonted footstep of an intru- 
der, flutters from its retreat beneath the sculptured slab, and 

Soars till the unrisen sun 
Beams on its speckled breast. 

All animated nature is returning to life, but the tenants of these earthly tenements wake not. Theirs 
is the sleep th«t the archangel's trump alone can dispel. There is an intrinsic pleasure in melan- 
choly that the thoughtless know not of, and no place so appropriate for its indulgence as this. 
Whilst I tread the grassy turf, methinks I hear a voice from the depth of the grave exclaim, " The 
place whereon thou standest is holy ground." As I gaze round upon this charnel enclosure, and 
note the graven monuments of the affluent in life — the plain, unornamented stone, that marks the 
resting place of him who possessed barely enough, and the neglected hillock that presses the breast 
of the poor min — I am taught a lesson of humility, and of contempt for the " lying vanities of life," 
which can be learned only from a contemplation of " man's latter end." 

Omniscient God ! why permittest thou the rich man to oppress, despise, and frown upon the 
poor, who is as good by nature, perhaps better by practice, than he') Why is he allowed to " flour- 
ish like a green bay-tree," while he refuses the helping hand of charily, nay, even the smile of re- 
cognition, to the virtuous poorl But man, vain man, camiot 

-with his short-lived plummet 

Fathom the vast abyss of heavenly justice. 

Despite the fulsome panegyric inscribed upon yonder sepulchral stone, the Dives, whose virtues— 
/though virtues he had none — it blazons forth, may in another world, implore that the Lazarus, over 
whom he lorded it here, may be sent with his finger dipped in water to cool his parched tongue. 

* 3p ^:: A- ^ Hi ^ ^ 

" It must be so." The soul of man is immortal. When weeping relatives follow to the mortuary 
their departed friend, what else than a confidence that the soul is " secure in her existence," can 
sustain their sorrowing spirits'? Who is there remembermg that " God made man after his own 
image," can look upon the church-yard, crowded with the sepulchres of those that are gone, and not 

Non omnis moriar 1 

It cannot be that, within that narrow tabernacle, is contained all that was of the great and good 
man whose name is chiseled upon the marble structure reared to his memory. 

Quern terra amisit, lucrifecit Coelum, 

Novo splendore 
Corporis resuscitati, vitaeque eternse, 
Cum Domino Jesu, omnibusque Sanctis 
Ovantem rediturum. 

These are the concluding words of the encomiastic epitaph carved "upon his mausoletun, and n» 

one who knew Charles N , his mighty mind, and the holy purity of his life, dares to doubt 

their verity. 

TOL. T. — NO. III. F 3. 

136 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

Can any sceptic read this simple mausoleum inscription without being forced to the conviction 
that the soul of her, of whom it is commemorative, survives the body. 

This Monument is dedicated to the Memory of 
a beloved daughter, 


who died 

on the 8th day of January, A. D., 1836. 

aged 15 years. 

They that have seen thy look in death. 
No more need fear to die. 

An infinitely just and all-wise God would not have taken from earth one so young, so "be- 
loved," had it not been to invest hei with a crown of immortality. 

k Mary died as dies the christian. I saw her but once — she was a lovely girl, but the flushed cheek 
and sunken eye told too truly that she was consumption's victim. Treacherous disease ! that never 
permits the sufferer to doubt a restoration to health till the hour of dissolution is just at hand. To 

" Hope told a flattering tale," 

and she thought not that she would die, until her wasted foim was laid upon the couch of death, 
and then she felt that her spirit must ere long depart. A little while, and her sarcophagus was 
borne to this home of the dead. 

On the day after her burial — a cold, wintiy day — I sat upon a grave-stone near her tomb, and 
■with a pencil traced, in " homely phrase," upon the attrite marble this 



Her voice is hushed ; no more is seen 

The loved one decked in beauty's bloom ; 
Come sorrow, in thy saddest mein. 

And chant a requiem o'ei her tomb. 
Ye wintry winds blow softly by 

The sacred spot where Mary sleeps ; 
Where sable sadness breathes her sigh, 

And gloomy grief her vigil keeps. 

The spotless, peerless, guiltless one, 

Who ne'er on vice's threshold trod ; 
Whose earthly couise had scarce begun. 

Now, lifeless, moulders 'neath the clod. 
The guileless heart that yet had learned 

To wear the garb of truth alone — 
And every baneful folly spurned, 

The turgid earth-worm claims its own. 

Successive years may glide away ; 

Oblivion tarnish memory's page — 
But Mary's name shall not decay 

Whilst one who knew her treads life's stage. 
And when the last of those shall leave 

This terrene world, who knew her well. 
Let none presume the name to breathe 

Of her whose worth they cannot tell. 

Come, let us round her hallowed shrine, 

O'erspread with garb of sombre gloom — 
A wreath of peaceful cypress twine, 

And plant with evergreens her tomb. 



When spring-lime bids the red-breast come, 

And o'er her pour his mournful lay ; 
Wild roses then, of sweet perfume, 

We'll gather from the dew-dipt spray. 

At close of the departing day. 

Their leaves, on Mary's grave, will spread ; 
And garlands, woven of flow'rets gay, , 

We'll scatter o'er the slumb'ring dead. 
Ye breezes bleak blow softly by 

The sacred spot where Mary sleeps ; 
Where sable sadness breathes her sigh, 

And gloomy grief her vigil keeps. 

The mother who dedicated a monument " to the memory of a beloved daughter," planted roses 
and evergreens around the tomb of her lost one : but they are now neglected. There is no hand to 
nurture them ; for that mother, too, has gone to the home of the blessed. Beneath yon tall, frondife- 
rous locust, through whose topmost boughs the morning sunbeams are just now beginning to peer, 
is she laid. Her grave is but one of the many scatteied around me, upon which the grass has not 
yet grown. Whose obsequies shall next be here celebrated 1 Perchance mine. Be it so. In yon- 
der unfrequented nook, where the sexton's spade has never yet disturbed the sod, would I be in- 
terred. S. D. A. 

Carlisle, Pa., 1839. 



W A T K R 3t A N . 

Part we at last, beloved ! 
'Tis but the karvest time of life — but we, 

Where once our footsteps roved 
No more together in our joy shall be. 

Methinks I see thee stand 
By the deserted hearth, all sad and lone. 

Grasping a shadowy hand. 
Or peopling air with my low voice's tone. 

I hear thy gentle sigh. 
When some pale flower, which I had fondly nurst. 

Brings to thy pensive eye 
Those vanish'd scenes where we had wander'd 

I mark thy pale, pale cheek. 
When some fond kindred voice within thine ear 

Shall of me kindly speak, 
Calling from thy heait's depths a tribute tear. 

Yes, thou wilt sadly weep, 
I know thou wilt, when I have gone to rest ; 

And, o'er my dreamless sleep, 
Pour the low wailing of an aching breast. 

Oh ! mine own love, and true, 
Thou know'st how long my heart-strings round 
thee clung; 

How, year by year, they drew 
Closer the loving chords on which they hung. 

But we are parting now ; 
The links give way, the mighty charm is riven ; • 

Death, from my darken'd brow, 
Shuts out thy gentle love — my earthly Heaven. 

Yes, dearest, I depart, 
I feel thy warm breath o'er my wan cheek stray ; 

I hear thy throbbing heart. 
And yet, oh ! ruthless death, I must not stay, 

Thou'rt fading from my sight, 
And low, soft tones, in music round me swell;. 

Earth is a world of night. 
And I am going hence — fareweU. farewelL 




Your gloiious standard launch agaiii> 
To meet another foe !—Ca;r!/). 


In Ma}% 1805, commodore Ban-on returned to the United States in ill health, leaving commodore 
Rodgersin the Mediterranean, in command of the largest American squadion ever known. 

Commodore Rodgers immediately hoisted his flag on board the Constitution, and shortly after- 
wards, as the echo of the evening gun at the Valetta died along the shores of Malta, the fleet got un- 
der weigh, and stood over towards the African coast. It was on the eighth day after their departure 
when the squadron made cape Carthage, and on the ninth, at sunrise, anchored in the roads of Go- 
letta. Before the gallant frigates lay the city of Tunis, the abode of happiness, and the fountahi 
spring of jackasses and orange water. The signal for the consul to come on board was immediately 
made, and on the following day he repaired on board the Constitution, and gave the commodore a 
detailed account of his fruitless conferences with Hamouda Bey. A council of war was then called, 
at which Col. Lear, the consul-general, assisted, which resulted in the determination to bombard the 
town in the course of thhty-six hours, if a favorable answer was not returned to commodore Rod- 
gers' letter demanding satisfaction. 

Previous to the arrival of the squadron, the Bey had called the American consul to his presence, 
and, before the assembled divan, demanded the release of a Tunisian Xebec and her two prizes which 
had been captured by the Constitution for attempting to violate the blockade of Tripoli. The con- 
sul assured him that they would not be released, aird the Bey, with a frowir, threatened a declara- 
tion of war. He accordingly wrote a letter to commodore Rodgers, and in answer received a visit 
from his fleet as before stated. The Bey, up to the very day of the appearance of the squadron, had 
assumed a lofty tone of menace, and while his guards surrounded the coirsul with their drawn sci- 
metars and slackened bowstrings, addressed him as follows : 

" Ask any of the christian consuls in this regency if Hamouda Bashaw has ever received such an 
insult from their government 1 The President of the United States must know that my father and 
grandfather have sat on the throne and ruled a kingdom. He shall learn from me that Hamouda is 
not yet dead ; and every crowned head in Europe shall approve the eternal continuance of that war 
which you seem resolved to force me into — for I solemnly pledge myself, that if war is the result, 
never, while I have a soldier to fire a gun, will I accord peace. You may form some idea of my 
character from the difficulty you had to negociate a peace, because you weakly permitted the Dey 
of Algiers to interfere. You may also learn my conduct to the Venitians, who rashly forced me into 
a war ; and if I am doomed to engage in another, it shall be continued to the last hour of my ex- 
istence. I frankly tell you that the famine in my country has prevented my declaring war against 
•you, in order that I might convince my subjects that their miseries should not be increased, unless I 
was forced thereto. Without such a motive, you certainly never would have been asked the reason 
why you captured my vessels ; but that just motive to a protraction of our difficulties, must be sa- 
crificed to those considerations which I owe myself and all Europe. You are the first power which 
has ever captured a Tunisian cruizer in full peace, on any pretext whatever. You are the first that 
has ever offered unprovoked insults to Hamouda Bashaw, who has ruled a kingdom for twenty-seven 
years, and been respected by all the world as a'sovereign. If I were tamely to submit to such acts of 
outrage, what should I expect from nations far more powerful than yourselves 1 You have seen 
what has been accorded me by Spain, Sweden, and Denmark, whose local situation and maritime 
force must render them more formidable enemies than the United States. Abstracted from this, the 
measures pursued are such as do not permit me to enter into any negotiation. Your admirals have 


done me great and repeated injuries, for the last of whicli my political existence forces me to insist 
on a proper reparation." 

At this moment a heavy cannon awoke the echoes of the palace, and, breathless with running, a 
Janizaiy entered the presence chamber. 

" Ha, Seliin," said the Bey, his curiosity getting the better of his dignity, "comes there a war 
ship from Stamboull" 

"Nay, most illustrious and magnificent piince, the christian dogs have entered tlie abode of hap- 

" By my grandfather's beard," suid the Bey — for he could swear like a christian — " come, they 
with their single frigate to beard Hamnuda ! — let them retreat in time. Consul ! go to your admiral, 
and bid him not let the morning sun shine upon him by the ' Garden of the World,' or his head 
shall answer for his temerity." 

At this moment another Janizary came with the astounding news that the largest fleet ever be- 
fore Tunis. had anchored in the harbor, and that the signal for the "consul Americana" fluttered 
at the fore of the admiral. Hamouda Bey lost his tone of defiance in a moment. " Consul," said 
he, " remember me kindly to your admiral" — and, clapping his hands, bioke up the divan. 

The next morning captain Decatur was directed by the commodore to proceed to Tunis, and co- 
operate with the consul in obtaining from the Bey an unequivocal and satisfactory guarantee for the 
faithful observance of peace. The Bey, still excited, refused to receive captain Decatur in this cha- 
racter ; and the captain, in his usual spirited manner, " refused visiting him on any other tei'ms ;" 
and left Tunis to return to the squadron, and report the result of his mission. As soon as the Bey 
heard of his departure, he manifested great concern. His royal breast appeared to be panic-struck, 
and he despatched a messenger with a conciliatory letter with such expedition that it " was received 
on board the Constitution before captain Decatur came alongside." 

The next day a treaty was concluded between the most magnificent prince and the United States ; 
and the Congress, having received on board a Tunisian ambassador, the Constitution, followed by the 
squadron, got under weigh, and stood out of the harbor. 

As they passed the island of Goletta, the old frigate caught a glimpse of the American flag float- 
ing proudly in the breeze, and hoisted an ensign at the fore — then, as if by one simultaneous im- 
pulse, the star spangled banner ascended to the fore of every vessel in the squadron, and upwards 
of two hundred cannon woke their thunder-notes, while two thousand five hundred men raised 
the loud huzza. 

A faint echo came back upon the dying land-breeze, and " the abode of happiness" was lost from 


We hear nothing more of the old frigate until the close of the year 1811, when, under the com- 
mand of captain Isaac Hull, she left the United States for Holland, having on board specie for the 
payment of the interest of the natioiral debt. It was a wild night when she hove too off the Texel, 
and landed her rich freight ; and as her last boat left her, the English cruizers were seen hovering 
in the distance, and the seaman's halloo rang far over the stormy waters. 

At length the delicate aflair was finished, and she bore up for Plymouth, where she arrived after 
a boisterous passage. Here the spirit of impressment again reared its agitating form. While lying 
at anchor in the roads, a man jumped overboard, and swam with the tide to the British frigate Ma- 
dagascar, which vessel lay astern of the Constitution. The deserter was too much exhausted when 
first taken up to state his object, and the Englishman sent a boat to acquaint the commander of the 
Constitution that one of his men had been picked up by that ship while in a drowning condition. 
In the morning a cutter was sent from the Constitution to procure the man, but, upon reaching the 
Madagascar, the officer was informed that the man had claimed protection as an Englishman, and 
that he had been sent on board the guard ship. 

In the absence of captain Hull, Mr. Morris, the first lieutenant of the Constitution, sought an in- 
terview with sir Roger Curtis, the port admiral, and claimed the deserter. The admiral informed 
Mr. Morris that it was not in his power to give up a deserter ivJio claimed to be a Bi'itish subject. 
Mr, Morris asked the admiral if he had any evidence except the man's own word to satisfy him 
that he was an Englishman. 

" None whatever sir," said the swallow-tailed admiral ; " but we are obliged to believe him." 

The officer therefore returned on board his ship empty-handed. 

That night, as the evening gun died away over the silent waters, the Constitution's crew were 
mustered, and after a minute inspection, the watch was set, and extra sentinels posted, with posi- 
tive orders to fire at any thing that might be seen floating near the ship. About midnight all hands 
were roused by the hail of the sentinel, and the discharge of three muskets — and on inquiry, it was 
fou^d that there was a man in the water close alongside. A boat was immediately lowered, and, 

140 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

upon its return, bi ought on board a seaman of the Madagascar's, who had contrived to buoy him- 
self up on some shells of blocks, and profiting by a turn of the tide, to drift down to the Constitu- 
tion. This man was asked what countryman he was, and he answered in a strong Irish accent, 
" An American, your honor." He was sent below, with orders to take good care of him. 

The next day the deserter was inquired after by the British commander, and it was intimated 
that as he had declared himself an American he could not be given up. It is believed, however, 
that no formal demand was made for the Irishman, though it was rumoured on shore that there 
would be trouble when the Constitution attempted to go to sea, as it was known that she was about 
to do that night. 

i In the course of the day two frigates came and anchored near her ; when, disliking his birth, the 
American commanding officer got under weigh, and dropped out about a mile to seaward. So close 
were the British ships at the time, that the pilot expressed his apprehension of getting foul of one of 
them — and he was told to go foul if he could do no better. By caieful handling, however, the ship 
went clear. A frigate followed the Constitution to her new anchorage. About 8 o'clock, captain 
Hull, who was now on board, ordered the ship cleared for action. The battle-lanterns were lighted 
fore and aft, and the crew went to their quarters by beat of drum. It is not easy to portray the en- 
thusiasm that existed in this noble ship ; every officer and man on board believing that the affair of 
the Chesapeake was about to be repeated — so fai, at least, as the assault was concerned. The man- 
ner in which the men took hold of the gun-tackles has been described as if they were about to jerk 
the guns through the ship's sides. An officer, who was passing through the batteiies, observed to 
the men that if there was an occasion to tight, it would be in their quarrel, and that he expected 
good service from them. 

" Let the quarter-deck look out for the colors, and we will look out for the guns," was the an- 

In short, it was not possible for a ship's company to be in a better humor to defend the honor of 
the flag, when the drum beat the retreat, and the boatswain piped the men to the capstan bars. 
Home came the yielding anchor to the tune of Yankee Doodle — and the ship, casting to starboard, 
stood over to the French coast without a follower. Were the English frigates satisfied that the lion 
might be humbled in a single-handed attack with the gallant frigate 1 Perchance the echo of the 
tune that drowned the waihng of the dying soldiers at Bunker Hill, was still familial to their ears. 
Be this as it may, the noble stranger was permitted to bid the clifis of Dover good night alone. 

The next day, while beating across the channel, several sail of English men-of-war were seen in 
chase, and it was the impression on board the American ship that the vessels were sent in pursuit. 
The Constitution, however, outsailed all the strangers but one, a frigate, that weathered upon her. 
After leading this ship a long distance ahead of the others, captain Hull hove to, beat to quarters, 
and, beneath the flag that was so soon to wave in glory above her quarter-deck, awaited to know the 
stianger's object. It unfortunately proved amicable. On reaching the entrance of the port of Cher- 
bourg, the English vessel kept close to the American frigate — and while the latter was turning into 
the roads, with a fresh breeze and thick weather, bore up also. The private signal agreed upon be 
fore the Constitution left France, however, was not made, and the battery fired a gun. The shoi 
struck the Constitution in the bends. It was followed by a second, that flew between the masts. A 
third past through the hammock nettings, and stove one of the boats over ihe main hatch. The 
steadiness of the frigate now induced the French to pause ; and an opportunity offering soon after 
to display the signal, the Constitution glided into port, wlrile the English frigate hauled her wind, 
and made the best of her way to join the channel fleet. In this brush, a midshipman of the Con- 
stitution was killed by the wind of a shot. Thus did this old cruizer dash along the English chan- 
nel, bandy words, and give tit for tat to the British admiral beneath his thousand guns, and then re- 
turn to the United States to fire the first gun in the second war with the mistress of the sea.* 


On the 12th of July, 1812, the frigate Constitution, under her former commander, captain Hull, 
having, on her return from Europe, shipped a new crew, sailed from Aimapolis on a cruize to the 
northward. On the 17th of July — on a Friday, be it remembered — while out of sight of land, though 
at no great distance from the coast, with a light breeze from the N. E., and under easy canvas, she 
made four sail to the northward, heading westward. At 3, P. M., while captain Hull and his officers 
were at dinner, the midshipman of the watch came down and reported that a squadron of men-of- 
war was in sight. 

" Mr. Morris beat to quarters," said the gallant commodore, as he repaired to his state-room to 
put on the symbols of his rank. 

* I have taken Cooper's note to his Naval History, as my guide in this chapter. 


" Aye, aye, sir" — -and a wave of the hand, was all the reply that was made ; and soon the decks 
of the Constitution were in battle array. 

This was but five years after the one-sided action betweoi the Leopard and the ill-fated Chesa- 
peake — an action which covered the unhandsome conquerors with shame — an action based upon 
the misunderstanding of an order, and which the whole of the nations of Europe viewed with dis- 
gust and contempt. Disgust, that a captain of the British navy should have been found, in the 
eighteenth century, iUiberal and cowardly enough to attack an unofTending vessel in a time of peace ; 
and contempt that any American should have been found vile enough to justify it. Much injured 
Barron! Who can feel as you have felt for the neglect of others ! V/ho has suffered as you have 
for the faults even of Congress itself 1 Appointed to a half-fitted, ill-arranged ship, and ordered to 
sail at a moment's notice, with your decks lumbered with stores, witliout a powder-horn filled, or a 
match that could be lighted. Who, but dolts, under such circumstances, could have expected any 
other result than the unfortunate one which took place, in the placid waters of your own native 
state 1 No one could doubt you who had seen you standing at the gangway of your own ship, re- 
ceiving the fire of the enemy, while a friendly hail died upon your lips, and bathing your trumpet 
with your own blood. No one could censure you who had beheld you doubting the dishonor of 
the first naval power in the world — a power whose highest glory was national honor, and whose 
greatest zeal was to emulate the knights and heroes of old, whose helm.ets had flashed back the sun- 
beam upon the scorching plains of Syria, and whose battle-cry had ruHg in the cause of virtue along 
the crowded lists of enlightened E urope. It was a sight to call forth the disgust and contempt of a 
free-born nation ; aye, and of a world of fettered slaves. What ! the sons of Agincourt and Cressy ! 
of Poictiers and Calais! firing into an inoflfending vessel of a friendly power in her own waters, and 
under a friendly guise ! Heavens ! where were the nolo hosts of old — where the Drakes, the 
Kaleighs, to stay the dishonorable battle — where the Plantaganets and the Percys 1 No Black 
Prince ordered there — " no noble Essex — no immortal Blake" — but in their place ruled a little 
one — 

-with soul so small. 

That were it less, it were no soul at all." 

But to our subject ; the day of probation had passed av/ay — condemnation had been heaped upon 
the actors — the deed of shame had received its proper reward ; and the dim lion looked out upon 
the world of leaping waters, and cried in vain, " England is mistress of the sea." 

" Six bells," cried the orderly at the cabin door, as the Constitution tacked in nineteen fathoms 
water, and cleared off the shore. At 4, P. M., she discovered a fifth sail to the north-east, which 
had the appeal ance of a vessel of war. This ship subsequently proved to be the Guerriere, captain 
Dacres. By this time, the other vessels of the enemy were made out to be three ships and a brig ; 
they bore N. N. W., and were all upon the starboard tack, apparently in company. The wind now 
became light, and the heavy courses flapped idly against the mast. 

" Haul up the mainsail," thundered the first lieutenant, and away went the main wing of the fri- 
gate like a passing cloud. 

At 6, the ship in the eastern board had altered her position so as to bear E. N. E. — the wind hi- 
therto having been fair for her to close. At a quarter past 6, however, the wind came out light at 
the southward, bringing the American ship to windv;?ard. 

The old frigate, eager to take advantage, now wore round with her head to the eastward, set her 
light studding-sails and staysails — and at half-past 7, with drums beating, and matches lighted, bore 
down to speak the nearest vessel. The wind continued hght, and the two vessels were slowly closing 
until 8. At 10, the Constitution shortened sail, and made the private signal of the American 
cruizers. After keeping the lights aloft for nearly an hcur, and getting no answer, at a quarter past 
1 1 she lowered them, and made sail with her starboard tacks aboard. 

During the whole of the middle watch the wind was light, and irany a little knot of officers and 
men watched the dark hulls and gleaming sails of the pursuing fleet, as the moon-beam trickled 
upon them and the sleepy waters beyond, and then lost itself in a fleecy cloud. When the morning 
watch was called, a rocket shot up from the Guerriere, the foremost frigate, and sank in a blaze of 
stars upon the shadowy deep. As the day opened, three sail were discovered upon the starboard 
quarter, and three astern. At 5, A. M., a fourth vessel joined the latter, making seven vessels in 
chase. This was an anxious time — the squadron of commodore Broke was in pursuit, and Old 
Ironsides had nothing to depend upon but her silver heels. The nearest vessel was nearly within 
gun-shot, and a deep mist only concealed the object of the pursuers from their view. As the ships 
slowly varied their positions, and the mist cleared away, the Constitution perceived that she had two 
frigates on her lee quarter, and a ship of the line, two frigates, a brig, and a schooner astern. The 
chasers had English colors flying, and occasionally the thunder of a long eighteen would echo in 
the distance, and die away astern. It now became calm, and the frigate hoisted out her boats, and 
sent them ahead to tow, with a view to keep the ship out of the reach of the enemy's shot. At the 

142 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

same time she whipt up one of the gun-deck guns and run it out aft as a stern chaser, bringing a 
long eighteen from the forecastle for a similar purpose. Two twenty-fours were also run out of the 
cabin windows, though it was found necessary to cut away the wood-work of the stern-frame to 
make room. By 6, A-. M., the wind, which heretofore continued very light and bafHing, came out 
from the northward and westward, and knocked the ship ofl' with her head to the southward. All 
her light canvas that would draw was set. The Shannon now opened her fire upon the Constitu- 
tion — but perceiving that her shot fell short she ceased. At half-past 6, the frigate sounded in twen- 
ty-six fathom, and finding that the enemy was likely to close, from the circumstances of his having 
the boats of two ships to tow, and being favored by a little more air, she played out her spare rope, 
and sent out her cutters with a kedge nearly a mile ahead, and then let it go. At the woid, the bars 
were manned, and the old ship walked awaj', overrunning and tripping the kedge as she came up 
with the other end of the line. While this was doing, fresh lines and another kedge were carried 
ahead, and in this manner, though out of sight of land, the frigate had glided away from her pur- 
suers before they discovered the manner in which it was done. The greatest sluggards will awaken 
at last ; and thus we see the Shannon,^ after the chase had nearly left her by her towing, lower her 
boats, and follow the successful example. At half-past 7, the Constitution had a little air, when she 
ran up thCiOld thirteen, and fired a shot at the Shannon in token of defiance. At 8, however, it fell 
calm again, and further recourse was had to kcdging, the enemy's vessel having light air, and; draw- 
ing ahead. 

The Shannonwas now fast closing, and Old Ironsides was busily employed in preparing to give 
her visiter a warm reception. 

It was evidently the intentipnof -the English commander to cripple the Constitution by mems 
of the Shannon, and then to close upon her, and bear her down with mighty odds. A more despi- 
cable and cowardly plan never was conceived of by a naval commander. The Constitution bore 
down to engage the Guerriere — and she defied the Shannon. Why did not the British comman- 
der haul his wind, and let them have a bout 1 It was like a stag hunt ; and nobly did the flying 
frigate leave the 5'elling pack in the distance, to bay at the moon, or wake the ocean echoes with 
their thunder notes. Every thing on board of the chase was stoppered — the decks were sanded to 
dry up the expected torrent of blood — and hope beamed from the eyes of the officers, and was re- 
flected by the iron faces of the unequalled crew. 

Captain Hull was not without hopes, in case even of a meeting, of throwing the Shannon astern 
by his fire, and of maintaining a safe distance from the other vessels. It was known that the ene- 
my could not tow very near, as it would have been easy to sink his boats with the stern chasers of 
the Constitution, and not a man of the crew showed any disposition to despondency. 

" Kemember the Chesapeake," muttered the old captain of the gun. 

"Remember the Chesapeake," answered the powder boy at his heels. 

" Remember the Chesapeake," sang the man in the chains. 

And from the look-out aloft came down, in broken words, the same inspiriting battle-call. 

It was an hour of life or death — thank God, it was of life and glory. 


Historian ! throw aside your record of the past, and tell me what shall be the result of this wea- 
risome chase. Man of prudence and safe calculation ! turn away and tell me the probable chances 
of safety by your unyielding figures. Thinking mariner ! retire to your cabin and tell me the pros- 
pect of the gallant frigate out-speeding the fast-sailing squadron that nearly encircles her. The 
winds of heaven, and the waves of ocean conspire against her. The flag of the republic clings like 
a wet sheet to her signal-halliards. The Shannon is fast closing with her astern, while the Guer- 
riere is swiftly bearing down upon her quarter. An hour promises to bring the struggle to an is- 
sue ; but hark ! there is a whisper in the clear heavens ; gentle voices seem to echo in the sky — a 
catspaw wrinkles the glassy waves, and now the ripple sings in the Constitution's wake. 

" A breeze," cries the drowsy look-out-man — the nodding seaman, worn out by long and arduous 
watching, springs up at the spiriting cry. 

" A breeze," thunders the ofiiicer of the deck, and soon the gallant ship is brought to the wind, 
with her sails trimmed, and her boats alongside. The quarter boats are run up to their davits, while 
the others are lifted clear of the water by purchases on the spare spars, where they swing ready to 
be used at a moment's notice. 

Onward she dashes in her majesty, the glorious stars of freedom proudly sparkling above her quar- 
ter deck ; but we must descend from the present to the past. The deed has been chronicled by the 
pen of the historian and the poet ; and the death-cry of one of the pursuers has long since ascended 
to the God of battles — while the loud huzzas of victory have wakened the echoes of the blood-tipped 
ocean from the Constitution's deck. 

As the frigate came by the wind she brought the Guerriere neatly on her lee beam, when that 


vessel opened a fire from her broadside. While the shot were dimpling the water just beside them, 
the crew of the Constitution were securing their boats with the steadiness and regularity of an ad- 
miral's crew in port. In a short time, however, another calm settled upon the deep. It was now 
10 o'clock of the second day, and the labors of the first were about to be acted over again. Captain 
Hull now started two thousand gallons of water, and sent the boats ahead again to tow. The ene- 
my then sent all his boats to the Shannon, the nearest ship astern, and up came the lazy frigate 
upon the chase. A few hours of uncommon exertion followed — the crew of the Constitution being 
compelled to supply the place of numbers with activity and zeal ; and nobly did they do it. 

The ships were close by the wind; every thing that would diaw was set, and the Shannon was 
slowly but steadily stealing ahead. At noon, a light breeze carried the frigate clear, but shortly af- 
terwards the boats were again manned, and the toilsome work of towing and hedging was renewed 

At 1, P. M., the cry of " Sail 0," rang thiough the busy ship. Was she a friend or an enemy 1 
She was to the leeward, and could not be distinctly made out. At this moment, the four frigates of 
the enemy were about one point upon the lee quarter of the Constitution, at long gunshot distance, 
and the Africa and her two prizes were upon her lee beam. 

At a little past 2, the Belvidera, the nearest ship, began to fire with her bow guns, and the Consti- 
tution to answer with her stern chasers. On board the latter ship, however, it was soon found to be 
extremely dangerous to use the main-deck stern guns ; the transoms having so much rake, the win- 
dowsbeing so high, and the guns so short, that every explosion lifted the upper deck, and threatened 
to blow out the stern frame. Perceiving his shot did but little execution, and having fired a royal 
salute, double shotted, at the admiral, captain Hull ceased burning powder. 

For several hours the enemy's frigates were within gun-shot, sometimes towing and hedging, and 
at others endeavoring to close with the puffs that occasionally passed. 

At 7, the boats of the Constitution were again ahead the ship, steering S.W. half W. with a light 
air. At half-past 7, she sounded in twenty-four fathoms. 

Four hours now elapsed of the same toilsome duty ; but a little before 1 1, at night, a light wind 
struck the ship, and the sails, for the first time in many a wearj' hour, bellied to the breeze. The boats 
were immediately picked up, with the exception of the first cutter. Top-gallant, studding sails, and 
staysails were set, and for an hour the weary seamen slumbered at their guns. 

At midnight another calm ensued, and it was perceived that the GueiTiere gained upon the chase. 
At this time, the Constitution's top-gallant and studding sails were taken in. 

Morning at length came upon the ocean, and it was found that three of the enemy's frigates were 
within long gun-shot, on the lee quaiter, and the other at about the same distance on the lee beam ; 
the Africa and the prizes being much farther to leewarJ. The Guerrieie now tacked, when the 
Constitution did the same, to keep her windward position. Soon after, the vEolus passed on the 
contrary tack, so near that she might have materially damaged the Constitution had she opened 
upon her her fii-e. Captain Hull now hoisted in the first cutter, and set all sail. The scene was 
beautiful beyond description ; friends and foes looked on with admiration — and "War's red angel 
slumbered on his wings." The weather was mild and clear — the sea smooth and transparent as 
an inland lake — and the wind blew sufiiciently to do away with the everlasting kedging, which had 
continued, with but slight intermission, fi)r forty-eight hours. The coot danced upon the wave — 
the stormy petrel no longer whistled astern. From the far-offshore, the gray gull came screaming 
with delight, and the bald eagle hovered over the republican frigate — <• The symbol of a mighty 
land." All the English vessels had got on the same tack with the Constitution, and the five frigates 
towered like moving mountains of snow upon the sleeping waters. Including the chase, eleven sail 
"were in sight ; shortly after, a twelfth appeared to windward. Captain Hull soon ascertained the 
stranger to be an American merchantman, and setting an Enghsh ensign, fired a gun to warn her 
to keep aloof; the hint was not overlooked, for soon the merchantman turned her cabin windows 
upon the belligerent squadron, and made a clean pair of heels for a more peaceful latitude. 

Until 10, A. M., the Constitution was making every preparation to carry a press of canvas, 
should it be found necessary. She now sounded in twenty-five fathoms. At noon, the wind died 
away again, but she had distanced the fleet. The Belvidera, however, was about two and a half 
miles off in her wake, bearing W.N.W. The nearest frigate to the leeward bore N. by W. half W. 
three and a half miles. The two other frigates were on the lee quarter, distant about five miles ; and 
the Africa was hull- down to leeward on the other tack. This was a vast improvement in the state 
of things, and officers and men were permitted to rest at quarters. 

At meridian, the wind began to blow a pleasant breeze — the water again rippled under the noble 
vessel's bows, and onward she dashed from her persevering pursuers like a Chesapeake pilot-boat 
before a north-easter. Her sails were watched and regulated in the most careful and seaman-like 
manner, imtil 4, P. M., when the Belvidera was four miles astern, and the other vessels thrown be- 
hind in the same proportion, notwithstanding the wind h;id become very light. 

In thisnianner both: parties pressed ahead and to windward as fast as circumstances would allow, 
profiting by every change of v.'ind and. tide, and resorting to every possible means of forcing theii 
vessels through the water. 

144 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

At 7, p. M., a black squall was seen rising ahead, and the Constitution prepared to meet it with 
the coolness and discretion displayed by her throughout this whole aflfair. All hands were at their 
stations, and every thing was kept fast until the last moment, when the order was given " Clew up 
and clew down" — in an incredible short space of time the light canvas was furled, a second reef 
taken in the mizen topsail, and the ship brought imder short sail. 

The English vessels, seeing her sudden movement, began to take in their canvas long before the 
squall reached them ; and when they were shut in by the rain, were seen steering wild upon the 
stormy sea. 

The Constitution, on the other hand, no sooner felt its weight than she hoisted and sheeted home 
hei fore and main top-gallant- sails; and while the enemy undoubtedly believed her to be a prey to 
the wind and the waves, she was flying away from them on an easy bow-line, at the rate of eleven 
knots an hour. 

In little less than an hour after the squall had struck the ship, it had entirely passed to leeward, 
and a sight was again obtained of the enemy. The Belvidera, the nearest vessel, had altered her 
bearing in that short period nearly two more points to leeward, and she was a long vi'aj' astern. 
The next nearest vessel was still farther to leeward, and more distant ; while the two remaining 
frigates were faiily hull down; the Afiicu was barely visible in the horizon. All apprehensions of 
the enemy now ceased, though sail was carried to increase the distance and to preserve the weather 

At half-past 10, the wind backed farther to the southward, when the Constitution, which had been 
steering free for some time, look in her lower studding sails. 

At 11, the enemy fired two guns — and the nearest ship could just be discovered in the dim dis- 
tance. As the wind blew a soldier's breeze — viz : all around the compass — the enemy pei severed 
in the pursuit ; but when the day dawned, the nearest vessel was hull down astern, and to leeward. 
Under these circumstances, it was considered safe to use every exertion to lose sight of the enemy ; 
and the wind dying away, the Constitution's sails were wet down from the sky-sails to the courses. 
The good effects of this application was soon apparent, for at eight bells the topsails of the enemy 
began to dip. At a quarter past 8, the English ships hauled their wind to the northward and east- 
ward, fully satisfied in theii owm minds that, however much the members of the British parliament 
might affect to despise them, the fir-built frigates, decorated with bits of striped bunting, were man- 
ned by those who were fully equal, if not superior, to them in seamanship, and who, as the sequel 
will show, could triumph over them in the desperate struggle of naval war. 

The day after the enemy gave up the chase, the Constitution, under a press of canvas, entered 
the harbor of Boston; and with her yards manned, and her colors flying, saluted the city with se- 
venteen guns. 

Thus ended this extraordinary chase, which, for nearness of approach, overpowering numbers, 
and unmeasured exertion on the pait of the English; and for coolness, discretion, and wariness on 
the part of the pursued, never had been equalled in the world. Whether we look at the old ship 
kedging away from the Shannon, running down to speak the Guerriere, lifting her boats when the 
Lreeze freshened, oi running into the squall, and stripping herself with the swiftness of the wind ; 
whether we see her firing her gun of defiance, and beating to quarters in the face of eight ships of 
war, and then tacking with the Guerriere to keep to windward, and exposing herself to the fire of 
the ^olus ; we are equally filled with admiration and astonishment; and, with Dibdin, are almost 
constrained to say — 

" There's a sweet little Cherub that sits up aloft 
That keeps a look-out for poor Jack." 

S 1 L E N C f : . 

These is a silence where hath been no sound. That never spoke — over the idle ground ; 

There is a silence where no sound may be, But in green ruins, in the desolate walls 

In the cold grave — under the deep, deep sea, J Of antique palaces, where Man hath been, 

Or in wide desert where no life is found, j Though the dun fox, or wild hyena, calls, 

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep pro- | And owls, that flit continually between, 

found ; ! Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan, 

No voice is hush'd — no life treads silently, There the true Silence is, self-conscious and 
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free, alone, P. 


B T EDGAR A . P O E , 

During the whole of a dull, daik, and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds 
hang oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly 
dreary tract of country ; and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within 
view of the melancholy House of Usher. I know not how it was— but, with the first glimpse of 
the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit. I say insufferable ; for the feeling: 
was unrelieved by any of that hnlf-pleasurable, because poetic, sentiment, with which the mind 
usually receives even the sternest nitural images of the des-jlate or terrible. I looked upon the scene 
before me — upon the meie house, and the simple landscape features of the domain — upon the bleak 
walls — upon the vacant eye-like windows — upon a few rank sedges — and upon a few white trunks 
of decayed trees — with an utter depression of soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation 
■jmore properly than to the after-dream of the reveller upon opium — the bitter lapse into common 
life — the hideous dropping off of the veil. There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the 
heart — an unredeemed dreariness of thought which no goading of the imagination could torture 
into aught of the sublime. What was it — I paused to think — what was it that so unnerved me in 
the contemplation of the House of Usher 1 It was a mystery all insoluble ; nor could I grapple 
with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered. I was forced to fall back upon the 
unsatisfactory conclusion, that while, beyond doubt, there are combinations of very simple natural 
objects which have the power of thus affecting us, still the reason, and the analysis, of this power, 
lie among considerations beyond our depth. It was possible, I reflected, that a mere different ar- 
rangement of the particulars of the scene, of the details of the picture, would be sufficient to mo- 
dify, or perhaps to annihilate its capacity for sorrowful impression ; and, acting upon this idea, I rein- 
ed my horse to the precipitous brink of a black and lurid tarn that lay in unruffled lustre by the 
dwelling, and gazed down — but with a shudder even more thriUing than before — upon the re-model- 
ied and inverted images of the gray sedge, and the ghastly tree-stems, and the vacant and eye-like 

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom 1 now proposed to myself a sojourn of some weeks. Its 
proprietor, Roderick Usher, had been one of my boon companions in boyhood ; but many years had 
elapsed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had ktel}' reached me in a distant part of the 
country — a letter from him — which, in its wildly importunate nature, had admitted of no other than 
a personal reply. The MS. gave evidence of nervous agitation. The writer spoke of acute bodily 
illness — of a pitiable mental idiosyuarasy which oppressed him — and of an earnest desire to see me, 
as his best, and indeed, his only persona! friend, with a view of attempting, by the cheerfulness of 
my society, some alleviation of his malady. It was the manner in which all this, and much more, 
was said — it was the apparent heart that went with his request — which allowed me no room for he- 
sitation — and I accordingly obeyed, what I still considered a very singular summons, forthwith. 

Although, as boys, we had been even intimate associates, yet I really knew little of my friend. 
His reserve had been always excessive and habitual. I was aware, however, that his very ancient 
family had been noted, time out of mind, for a peculiar sensibility of temperament, displaying itself, 
through long ages, in many works of exalted art, and manifested, of late, in repeated deeds of mu- 
nificent yet unobtrusive charity, as well as in a passionate devotion to the intricacies, perhaps even 
more than to the orthodox and easily recognizable beauties, of musical science. I had learned, too, 
the very remarkable fact, that the stem of the Usher race, all time-honored as it was, had put forth, 
at no period, any enduring branch ; in other words, that the entire family lay in the direct line of 
descent, and had always, with very tiifling and very temporary variation, so lain. It was fhis defi- 
ciency, I considered, while running over in thought the perfect keeping of the character of the pre- 
mises with the accredited character of the people, and while speculating upon the possible influence 
which the one, in the long lapse of centuries, might have exercised upon the other — it was this de- 
ficiency, perhaps, of collateral issue, and the consequent undeviating transmission, from sire to son, 
of the patrimony with the name, which had, at length, so identified the two as to merge the original 
title of the estate in the quaint and equivocal appellation of the " House of Usher" — an appellation 

146 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

which seemed to include, in the minds of the peasantry who used it, both the family and the family 

I have said that the sole effect of my somewhat childish experiment, of looldng down within the 
tarn, had been to deepen the first singular impression. There can be no doubt that the conscious- 
ness of the rapid increase of my superstition — for why should I not so term it ? — served mainly to 
accelerate the increase itself. Such, I have long known, is the paradoxical law of all sentiments 
having terror as a basis. And it might have been for this reason only, that, when I again uplifted 
my eyes to the house itself, from its image in the pool, there grew in my mind a strange fancy — a 
fancy so ridiculous, indeed, that I but mention it to show the vivid force of the sensations which op- 
pressed me. I had so worked upon my imagination as really to believe that around about the whole 
mansion and domain there hung an atmosphere peculiar to themselves and their immediate vicinity — 
an atmosphere which had no affinity with the air of heaven, but which had reeked up from the de- 
cayed trees, and the gray walls, and the silent tarn, in the form of an inelastic vapor or gas — dull, 
sluggish, faintly discernible, and leaden-hued. Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a 
dream, I scanned more narrowly the real aspect of the building. Its principal feature seemed to be 
that of an excessive antiquity. The discoloration of ages had been great. Minute fungi overspread 
the whole exterior, hanging in a fine tangled web-work from the eaves. Yet all this was apart from 
any extraordinary dilapidation. No portion of the masonry had falleir ; and there appeared to be a 
wild inconsistency between its still perfect adaptation of parts, and the utterly porous, and evidently 
decayed condition of the individual stones. In this there was much that reminded me of the spe- 
cious totality of old wood-work which has rotted for long years "in some neglected vault, with no 
disturbance from the breath of the external air. Beyond this indication of extensive decay, however, 
the fabric gave little token of instability. Perhaps the eye of a scrutinizing observer might have dis- 
covered a barely perceptible fissure, which, extending from the roof of the building in front, made 
its way down the wall in a zig-zag direction, until it became lost in the sullen waters of the tain. 

Noticing these things, I rode over a short causeway to the house. A servant in waiting took my 
horse, and I entered the Gothic archway of the hall. A valet, of stealthy step, thence conducted 
me, in silence, through many dark and intricate passages in my progress to the studio of his master. 
Much that I encountered on the way contributed, I know not how, to heighten the vague sentiments 
of which I have already spoken. While the objects around me — while the carvings of the ceilings, 
the sombre tapestries of the walls, the ebon blackness of the floors, and the phantasmagoric armorial 
trophies which rattled as I strode, were but matters to which, or to such as which, I had been accus- 
tomed from my infancy — while I hesitated not to acknow-ledge how familiar was all this — I still 
wondered to find how unfamiliar were the fancies which ordinary images were stirring up. On one 
of the staircases, I met the physician of the family. His countenance, I thought, wore a mingled 
expression of low cunning and perplexity. He accosted me with trepidation and passed on. The 
valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the presence of his master. 

The room in which I found myself was very large and excessively lofty. The windows were 
long, narrow, and pointed, and at so vast a distance from the black oaken floor as to be altogether 
inaccessible from within. Feeble gleams of encrimsoned light made their way through the trelliced 
panes, and served to render sufficiently distinct the more prominent objects around ; the eye, how- 
ever, struggled in vain to reach the remoter angles of the chamber, or the recesses of the vaulted and 
fretted ceiling. Dark draperies hung upon the walls. The general furniture was profuse, comfort- 
less, antique, and tattered. Many books and musical instruments lay scattered about, but failed to 
give any vitality to the scene. I felt that I breathed an atmosphere of sorrow. An air of stern, deep, 
and irredeemable gloom hung over and pervaded all. 

Upon my entrance. Usher arose from a sofa upon which he had been lying at full length, and 
greeted me widi a vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first thought of an overdone cordial- 
ity — of the constrained effort of the ennuye man of the world. A glance, however, at his counte- 
nance convinced me of his perfect sincerity. We sat down ; and for some moments, while he spoke 
not, I gazed upon him with a feeling half of pity, half of awe. Surely, man had never before so 
terribly altered, in so brief a period, as had Roderick Usher ! It was with difficulty that I could 
bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being before me with the companion of my early boy- 
hood. Yet the character of his face had been at all times remarkable. A cadaverousness of com- 
plexion ; an eye large, liquid, and luminous beyond comparison ; lips somewhat thin and very pal- 
lid, but of a surpassingly beautiful curve ; a nose of a delicate Hebiew model, but with a breadth of 
nostril unusual in similar formations ; a finely moulded chin, speaking, in its want of prominence, 
of a want of moral energy ; hair of a more than web-like softness and tenuity ; these features, with 
an inordinate expansion above the regions of the temple, made up altogether a countenance not 
easily to be forgotten. And now in the mere exaggeration of the prevailing character of these fea- 
tures, and of the expression they were wont to convey, lay so much of change that I doubted to 
whom I spoke. The now ghastly pallor of the skin, and the now iriirarulous lustre of the eye, 
above all things stirtled and even a'.veJ me. The silken hair, too, had been suflered to grow all un- 
heeded, and as, in its wild gossami^r texture, it floated rather than fell about the fare, I could not, 
even with elToit, connect its arabooqus expressionwith any idea of simple humanity. 


■In the manner of my friend I was at once struck with an incoherence — an inconsistency ; and I 
soon found this to arise from a series of feeble and futile struggles to overcome an habitual trcpidancy, 
an excessive nervous agitation. For something of this nature I had indeed been prepared, no less 
by his letter, than by reminiscences of certain boyish traits, and by conclusions deduced from his 
peculiar physical conformation and temperament. His action was alternately vivacious and sullen. 
His voice varied rapidly from a tremulous indecision (when the animal spirits seemed utterly in 
abeyance) to that species of energetic concision^^that abrupt, weighty, unhurried, and hollow^sound- 
ing enunciation — that leaden, self-balanced and pcTfi'ctly modulated guttural utterance, which may 
be observed in the moments, of the intensost excitement of the lost drunkard, or the irreclaimable 
eater of opium. 

It.v/as thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest desire to see me, and of the so- 
lace he expected me to afford him. He entered, at some length, into what he conceived to be the 
nature of his malady. It;was, he said, a constitutional and a family evil, and one for which he des- 
paired to find a remedy — a mere nervous affection, he immediately added, which would undoubted- 
ly soon pass off. It displayed itself in a host of unnatural sensations. Some of ithese, as he de- 
tailed them, interested and bewildered me^ — although, perhaps, the terms, and the general manner of 
the narration had their weight. He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses ; the most 
insipidfood was alone endurable ; he cquld wear only garments of certain texture ; the odois of all 
flowers.were oppressive ; his eyes were tortured by even a faint light ; and there were but peculiar 
sounds, and these from stringed instruments, which did not inspiie him with horror. anomalous species of terror I found him a boundeir slave. " I shall perish," said he, "I 
must perish in this deplorable folly. Thus, thus, and not otherwise, shall I be lost. I dread the 
events of /the future, not in themselves, but in their results. I shudder at the thought of any, even 
the most trivial, incident, which may operate upon this intolerable agitation of soul. I have, indeed, 
no abhorrence ofdanger, except in its absolute effect-^in terror. In this unnerved — ^in this pitiable 
conditiour-r-I feel that I must inevitably abandon life and reason together in my- struggles with some 
fatal demon of fear." 

I learn.ed, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints, another singular feature 
of his mental condition. He .was enchained by certain superstitious impressions in regard to the 
dwelling which he tenanted, and from which, for many years, he had never ventured forth — in re- 
gard to an influence whose supposititious force was conveyed in terms too shadowy here to be re- 
stated — an influence which some peculiarities in the mere form and substance of his family mansion, 
had, by dint of long sufferance, he said, obtained over his spirit — an effect which the physique of 
the gray walls and turrets, and of the dim tarn into which they all looked down, had, at length, 
brought about upon the morale of his existence. 

He admitted, however, although with hesita'ion, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus af- 
flicted him could be traced to a more natural and far more palpable origin — to the severe and long- 
continued illness — indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution — of a tenderly beloved sister; his 
sole companion for long years — his last and only relay^e on earth. " Her decease," he said, with a 
bitterness which I can never forget, " would leave him (him the hopeless and the frail) the last of 
the ancient race of the Ushers." As he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so was she called) passed 
slowly through a remote portion of the apartment, and, without having noticed my piesence, disap- 
peared. I regarded her with an utter astonishment not unmingled with dread. Her figure, her air, 
her features — all, in their very minutest development were those — were identically (I can use no 
other sufficient term) were identically those of the Roderick Usher who sat beside me. A feeling of 
stupor oppressed me, as my eyes followed her retreating steps. As a dooi, at length, closed upon 
her exit, my glance sought instinctively and eagerly the countenance of the brother — but he had 
buried his face in his hands, and I could only perceive that a far more than ordinary wanness had 
overspread the emaciated fingers through which trickled many passionate tears. 

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, 
a gradual wasting away of the person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially cata- 
leptical character, were the unusual diagnosis. Hitherto she had steadily borne up against the pres- 
sure of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed ; but, on the closing in of the even- 
ing of my arrival at the house, she succumbed, as her brother told me at night with inexpressible 
agitation, to the prostrating power of the destroyer — .andd learned that the glimpse I had obtained 
of her person would thus probably be the last I should obtain — that the lady, at least while living, 
would be seen by me no more. 

For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or myself; and, during this 
period, I was busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend. We painted 
and read together — or I listened, as if in a dream, to the wild improvisations of his speaking guitar. 
And thus, as a closer and still closer intimacy admitted me more unreservedly into the recesses of 
Ms spirit, the more bitterly did I perceive the futility of all attempt at cheering a mind from which 
darkness, as if an inherent positive quality, poured forth upon all objects of the moral and physical 
universe, in one unceasing radiation of gloom. 

I shall ever bear about me, as Moslemin their shrouds at Mecca, a memory of the many solemn 

148 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

hours I thus spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I should fail in any attempt 
to convey an idea of the exact character of the studies, or of the occupations, in which he involved 
me, or led me the way. An excited and highly distempered ideality threw a sulphurous lustre over 
all. His long improvised dirges will ring for ever in my ears. Among other things, I bear painfully 
in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of Von We- 
ber. From the paintings over which his elaborate fancy brooded, and which grew, touch by touch, 
into'^vaguenesses at which I shuddered the more thrillingly, because I shuddered knowing not why, 
from these paintings (vivid as there images now are before me) I would in vain endeavor to educe 
more than a small portion which should lie within the compass of merely written words. By the 
utter simpUcity, by the nakedness, of his de-igns, he arrested and over-awed attention. If ever mor- 
tal painted an idea, that mortal was Roderick Usher. For me at least — in the circumstances then 
surrounding me — there arose out of the pure abstractions which the hypochondriac contrived to 
throw upon his canvas, an intensity of intolerable awe, no shadow of which felt I ever yet in the 
contemplation of the certainly glowing yet too concrete reveries of Fuseli. 

One of the phantasmagoric conceptions of my friend, partaking not so rigidly of the spirit of ab- 
straction, may be shadowed forth, although feebly, in words. A small picture presented the interior 
of an immensely long and rectangular vault or tunnel, with low walls, smooth, white, and without 
interruption or device. Certairr accessory points of the design served well to convey the idea that 
this excavation lay at an exceeding depth below the surface of the earth. No outlet was observed 
in any portion of its vast extent, and no torch, or other artificial source of light was discernible — 
yet a flood of intense rays rolled throughout, and bathed the whole in a ghastly and inappropriate 

I have just spoken of that morbid condition of the auditory nerve which rendered all music into- 
lerable to the sufferer, with the exception of certain effects of stringed instruments. It was, perhaps, 
the narrow limits to which he thus confined himself upon the guitar, which gave birth, in great 
measure, to the fantastic character of his performances. Buc the fervid facility of his impromptus 
could not be so accounted for. They must have been, and were, in the notes, as well as in the words 
of his wild fantasias, (for he not unfrequently accompanied himself with rhymed verbal improvisa- 
tions,) the result of that intense mental coUectedness and concentration to which I have previously 
alluded as obser^able only in particular moments of the highest artificial excitement. The words of 
one of these rhapsodies I have easily borne away in memory. I was, perhaps, the more forcibly im- 
pressed with it, as he gave it, because, in the under or mystic currrent of its meaning, I fancied that I 
perceived, and for the first time, a full consciousness on the part of Usher, of the tottering of his 
lofty reason upon her throne. I'he verses, which were entitled " The Haunted Palace," lan very 
nearly, if not accurately, thus : 


In the greenest of our valleys, 

By good angels planted, 
Once a fair and statSy palace — 

Snow-white palace — reared its head. 
In the monarch Thought's dominion — 

It stood there ! 
Never seraph spread a pinion 

Over fabric half so fair. 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden. 

On its roof did float and flow ; 
(This — all this — was in the olden 

Time long ago) 
And every gentle air that dallied. 

In that sweet day. 
Along the ramparts plumed and palUd, 

A winged odoj^went away. 


Wanderers in that happy valley 

Through two luminous windows saw -. i^ 
Spirits moving musically '\- 

To a lute's well-tuned law, 
Round about a throne, where sitting 

(Porphyrogene !) 
In state his glory well befitting. 

The sovereign of the realm was seen. 



And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

Was the fair palace door, 
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 
A troop of Echoes whose sole duty 

Was but to sing. 
In voices of surpassing beauty. 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 


But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

Assailed the monarch's high estate •, 
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow 

Shall dawn upon him, desolate!) 
And, round about his home, the glory 

That l)lushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim-remembered story 

Of the old time entombed. 


And travellers now within that valley. 

Through the red-litten windows, see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 

To a discordant melody ; 
While, like a rapid ghastly river. 

Through the pale door, 
A hideous throng rush out forever. 

And laugh — but smile no more. 

I well remember that suggestions arising from this ballad led us into a train of thought wherein 
there became manifest an opinion of Usher's which I mention not so much on account of its novel- 
ty, (for other men liave thought thus,) as on account of the pertinacity with which he maintained 
it. This opinion, in its general form, was that of the sentience of all vegetable things. But, in his 
disordered fancy, the idea had assumed a more daring character, and trespassed, under certain con- 
ditions, upon the kingdom of inorganization. I lack words to express the full extent, or the earnest 
abandon of his persuasion. The belief, however, was connected (as I have previously hinted) with 
the gray stones of the home of his forefathers. The condition of the sentience had been here, he 
imagined, fulfilled in the method of collocation of these stones — in the order of their arrangement, 
as well as in that of the many fungi whicli overspread them, and of the decayed trees which stood 
around — above all, in the long undisturbed endurance of this arrangement, and in its reduplication 
in the still waters of the tarn. Its evidence — the evidence of the sentience — was to be seen, he said, 
(and I here started as he spolie,) in the gradual yet certain condensation of an atmosphere of their 
own about the waters and the walls. The result was discoverable, he added, in that silent, yet im- 
portunate and terrible influence which for centuries had moulded the destinies of his family, and 
which made him what I now saw him — what he was. Such opinions need no comment, and I will 
make none. 

Our books — the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of the mental existence of 
the invalid — were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm. We 
pored together over such works as the Verveit et Chartreuse of Giesset ; the Belphegor of Machia- 
velli ; the Selenography of Brewster , the Heaven and Hell of Swedenborg ; the Subterranean Voy- 
age of Nicholas Klimm de Holberg; the (Chiromancy of Robert Flud, of Jean d'Indagine, and of 
De la Chambre ; the Journey into the Blue Distance of Tieck ; and the City of the Sun of Cam- 
panella. One favorite volume was a small octavo edition of the Directorium Inquisitorium, by the 
Dominican Eymeric de Gironne ; and there were passages in Pomponius Mela, about the old Afri- 
can Satyrs and CEgipans, over which Usher would sit dreaming for hours. His chief delight, how- 
ever, was found in the earnest and repeated perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in 
quarto Gothic — the manual of a forgotten church — the Vigilae Mai-tuorum secundum Chorum Ec- 
clesiae Maguntinae. 

I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its probable influence upon the 
hypochondriac, when, one evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no 
more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, previously to its final inter- 
ment, in one of the numerous vaults within the main walls of the building. The wordly reason, 
however, assigned for this singular proceeding, was one which I did not feel at liberty to dispute. 
The brother had been led to his resolution (so he told me) by considerations of the unusual charac- 

150 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

ter of the malady of the deceased, of certain obtrusive and eager inquiries on the part of her medi- 
cal men, and of the remote and exposed situation of the burial ground of the family. I will not 
deny that when I called to mind the sinister countenance of the person whom I met upon the stair- 
case, on the day of my arrival at the house, I had no desire to oppose what I regarded as at best but 
a harmless, and not by any means an unnatural precaution. 

At the request of Usher, I personally aided him in the arrangements for the temporary entomb- 
ment. The body having been encoffined, \vc two alone bore it to its rest. The vault in which we 
placed it (and which had been so long unopened that our torches, half smothered in its oppressive 
atmosphere, gave us little opportunity for investigation) was small, damp, and utterly without means 
of admission for light; lying, at great depth, immediately beneath that portion of the building in 
which was my own sleeping apartment. It had been used, apparently, in remote feudal times, for 
the worst purposes of a donjon-keep, and, in later days, as a place of deposit for powder, or other 
highly combustible substance, as a portion of its floor, and the whole interior of a long archway 
through whithrwe reached it, were carefully sheathed with copper. The door, of massive iron, had 
been, also, similarly protected. Its immense weight caused an unusually sharp grating sound, as it 
moved qpon its hinges. 

Havirjg deposited our mournful burden upon tressels within this region of horror, we partially 
turned alpide the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the tenant. The exact 
similitude between the brother and sister even here again startled and confounded me. Usher, di- 
vining, perhaps, my thoughts, murmured out some few words from which I learned that the deceas- 
ed and himself had been twins, and that sympathies of a scarcely intelligible nature had always ex- 
isted between them. Our glances, however, rested not long upon the dead — for we could not regard 
her unawed. The disease which had thus entombed the lady in the maturity of youth, had left, as 
usual in all maladies of a strictly cataleptical character, the mockery of a faint blush upon the bo- 
som and the face, and that suspiciously lingering smile upon the lip which is so terrible in death. 
We replaced and screwed down the lid, and, having secured the door of iron, made our way, with 
toil, into the scarcely less gloomy apartments of the upper portion of the house. 

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change came over the features 
of the mental disorder of my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His ordinary occupations 
were neglected or forgotten. He roamed from chamber to chamber with hurried, unequal, and ob- 
jectless step. The pallor of his countenanceliad assumed, if possible, a more ghastly hue — but the 
luminousness of his eye had utterly gone out. The once occasional huskiness of his tone was heard 
no more ; and a tremulous quaver, as if of extreme terror, habitually characterized his utterance. — 
There were times, indeed, when I thought his unceasingly agitated mind was laboring with an op- 
pressive secret, to divulge which he struggled for the necessary courage. At times, again, I was ob- 
liged to resolve all into the mere inexplicable vagaries of madness, as I beheld him gazing upon va- 
cancy for long hours, in an attitude of the profoundest attention, as if listening to some imaginary 
sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified — that it infected me. I felt creeping upon me, 
by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive superstitions. 

It was, most especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after 
the entombment of the lady Madeline, that I experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep 
came not near my couch — while the hours waned and waned away. I struggled to reason off the 
nervousness which had dominion over me. I endeavored to believe that much, if not all of what I 
felt, was due to the phantasmagoric influence of the gloomy furniture of the room — of the dark and 
tattered draperies, which, tortured into motion by the breath of a rising tempest, swayed fitfully to 
and fro upon the walls, and rustled uneasily about the decorations of the bed. But my efforts were 
fruitless. An irrepressible tremor gradually pervaded my frame ; and, at length, there sat upon my 
very heart an incubus of utterly causeless alarm. Shaking this oflf with a gasp and a struggle, I 
upUfted myself upon the pillows, and, peering earnestly within the intense darkness of the chamber, 
barkened — I know not why, except that an instinctive spirit prompted me^to certain low and in- 
definite sounds which came, through the pauses of the storm, at long intervals, I knew not whence. 
Overpowered by an intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my 
clothes with haste, for I felt that I should sleep no more during the night, and endeavored to arouse 
myself from the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the 

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my 
attention. I presently recognized it as that of Usher. In an instant afterwards he rapped, with a 
gentle touch, at my door, and entered, bearing a lamp. His couirtenance was, as usual, cadaverously 
wan — but there was a species of mad hilarity in his eyes — an evidently restrained hysteria in his 
whole demeanor. His air appalled me — but any thing was preferable to the solitude which I had so 
long endured, and I even welcomed his presence as a relief. 

" And you have not seen it 1" he said abruptly, after having stared about him for some moments 
in silence — " you have not then seen it 1 — but, stay ! you shall." Thus speaking, and having care- 
fully shaded his lamp, he hurried to one of the gigantic casements, and threw it freely open to the 


The impetuous fury of the cnteiing gust nearly Ufted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a tem- 
pestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty. A whirl- 
wind hud apparently collected its force in our vicinity ; for there were frequent and violent alterations 
in the direction of the wind ; and the exceeding density of the clouds (which hung so low as to 
press upon the turrets of the house) did not prevent our perceiving the life-hke velocity with which 
they flew careering from all points against each other, without passing away into the distance. I 
say that even their exceeding density did not prevent our perceiving this — yet we had no glimpse of 
the moon or stars — nor was there any flashing forth of the lightning. But the under surfaces of 
the huge masses of agitated vapor, as well as all terrestrial objects immediately around us, were 
glowing in the unnatural light of a faintly luminous and distinctly visible gaseous exhalation which 
hung about and enshrouded the mansion. 

" You must not — you shall not behold this !" said I, shudderingly, to Usher, as I led him, with a 
gentle violence, from the window to a seat. " These appearances, which bewilder you, are merely 
electrical phenomena not uncommon — or it may be that they have their ghastly origin in the rank 
miasma of the tarn. Let us close this casement — the air is chilling and dangerous to your frame. 
Here is one of your favorite romances. I will read, and you shall listen — and so we will pass away 
this terrible night together." 

The antique volume which I had taken up was the " Mad Trist" of Sir Launcelot Canning — but 
I had called it a favorite of Usher's more in sad jest than in earnest ; for, in truth, there is little in 
its uncouth and unimaginative prolixity which could have had interest for the lofty and spiritual 
ideality of my friend. It was, however, the only book immediately at hand ; and I indulged a vague 
hope that the excitement which now agitated the hypochondriac might find relief (for the history of 
mental disorder is full of similar anomalies) even in the extremeness of the folly which I should read» 
Could I have judged, indeed, by the wild, overstrained air of vivacity with which he barkened, or 
apparently barkened, to the words of the tale, I might have well congt*atulated myself upon the suc- 
cess of my design. 

I had arrived at that well-known portion of the story where Ethelred, the hero of the Trist, hav- 
ing sought in vain for peaceable admission into the dwelling of the hermit, proceeds to make good 
an entrance by force. Here, it will be remembered, the words of the narrative run thus — 

" And Ethelred, who was by nature of a doughty heart, and who was now mighty withal, on ac- 
count of the powerfulness of the wine which he had drunken, waited no longer to hold parley with 
the hermit, who, in sooth, was of an obstinate and maliceful turn, but, feeling the rain upon his 
shoulders, and fearing the rising of the tempest, uplifted his mace outright, and, with blows, made 
quickly room in the plankings of the door for his gauntleted hand, and now pulling therewith stur- 
dily, he so cracked, and ripped, and tore all asunder, that the noise of the dry and hollow-sounding 
wood alarummed and reverberated throughout the forest." 

At the termination of this sentence I started, and, for a moment, paused ; for it appeared to me 
(although I at once concluded that my excited fancy had deceived me) — it appeared to me that, from 
some very remote portion of the mansion or of its vicinity, there came, indistinctly, to my eais, what 
might have been, in its exact similarity of character, the echo (but a stifled and dull one cer- 
tainly) of the very cracking and ripping sound which feir Launcelot had so particularly described^ 
It was, beyond doubt, the coincidence alone which had arrested my attention ; for, amid the rattling 
of the sashes of the casements, and the ordinary commingled noises of the still increasing storm, 
the sound, in itself, had nothing, surely, which should have interested or disturbed me. I continued 
the story. 

" But the good champion Ethelred, now entering within the door, was sore enraged and amazed 
to perceive no signal of the maliceful hermit ; but, in the stead thereof, a dragon of a scaly and pro- 
digious demeanor, and of a fiery tongue, which sate in guard before a palace of gold, with a floor of 
silver ; and upon the wall there hung a shield of shining brass with this legend enwritten — 

Who entereth herein, a conqueror hath bin. 
Who slayeth the dragon, the shield he shall win. 

And Ethelred upUfted his mace, and struck upon the head of the dragon, which fell before him, and 
gave up his pesty breath, with a shriek so horrid and harsh, and withal so piercing, that Ethelred 
had fain to close his ears with his hands against the dreadful noise of it, the like whereof was never 
before heard." 

Here again I paused abruptly, and now with a feeling of wild amazement — for there could be no 
doubt whatever that, in this instance, I did actually hear (although from what direction it proceeded 
I found it impossible to say) a low and apparently distant, but harsh, protracted, and most unusual 
screaming or grating sound — the exact counterpart of what my fancy had already conjured up as 
the sound of the dragon's unnatural shriek as described by the romancer. 

Oppressed, as I certainly was, upon the occurrence of this second and most extraordinary coinci 
dence, by a thousand conflicting sensations, in which wonder and extreme terror were predominant, 
I still retained sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting, by any observation, the sensitive ner- 


132 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

TOusne»s of my companion. I was by no means certain that he had noticed the sounds in question ; 
although, assuredly, a strange alteration had, during the last few minutes, taken place in his demean- 
or. From a position fronting my own, he had gradually brought round his chair, so as to sit with 
his face to the door of the chamber, and thus I could but partially perceive his features, although I 
;saw that that his lips trembled as if he were murmuring inaudibly. His head had dropped upon his 
'breast — yet I knew that he was not asleep, from the wide and rigid opening of the eye, as I caught 
a glance of it in profile. The motion of his bod}', too, was at variance with this idea — for he rock- 
-sd from side to side with a gentle yet constant and uniform sway. Having rapidly taken notice of 
all -this, I resumed the narrative of Sir Launcelot, which thus proceeded : — 

" And now, the champion, having escaped from the terrible fury of the dragon, bethinking him- 
self of the brazen shield, and of the breaking up of the enchantment which was upon it, removed 
the carcass from out of the way before him, and approached valorously over the silver pavement of 
;4he castle to where the shield was upon the wall ; which in sooth tarried not for his full coming, but 
fell down at his feet upon the silver floor, with a mighty great and terrible ringing sound." 

No sooner had these syllables passed my lips, than — as if a shield of .brass had indeed, at the mo- 
ment, fallen heavily upon a floor of silver — I became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clang- 
orous, yet apparently muffled reverberation. Completely unnerved, I started convulsively to my feet, 
but the measured rocking movement of Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair in which he 
sat. His eyes were bent fixedly before him, and throughout his whole countenance their reigned a 
.■more than stony rigidity. But, as I laid my hand upon his shoulder, there came a strong shudder 
over his frame ; a sickly smile quivered about his lips ; and I saw that he spoke in a low, hurried, and 
gibbering murmur, as if unconscious of my presence. Bending closely over his person, I at length 
drank in the hideous import of his words. 

" Not hear it ? — yes, I hear it, and have heard it. Long — long — long — many minutes, many 
liours, many days, have I heard it — yet I dared not — oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am ! — I 
dared not — I dared not speak ! We have put her living in the tomh ! Said I not that my senses 
•were acute 1 — I now tell you that I heard her first feeble movements in the hollow coffin. I heard 
them — many, many days ago — yet I dared not — I dared not speak ! And now — to-night — Ethel- 
jared — ha ! ha ! — the breaking of the hermit's door, and the death-cry of the dragon, and the clangor 
•of the shield — say, rather, the rending of the coffin, and the grating of the iron hinges, and her 
struggles within the coppered archway of the vault ! Oh whither shall I fly ? Will she not be 
here anon 1 Is she not hurrying to upbraid me for my haste ? Have I not heard her footsteps on 
the stair % Do I not distinguish that heavy and horrible beating of her heart 1 Madman !" — here 
lie sprung violently to his feet, and shrieked out his syllables, as if in the effort he were giving up 
liis soul — " Madman I I tell you that she now stands without the door /" 

As if in the superhuman energy of his utterance there had been found the potency of a spell — 
the huge antique pannels to which the speaker pointed, threw slowly back, upon the instant, their 
ponderous and ebony jaws. It was the work of the rushing gust — but then without those doors there 
did stand the lofty and enshrouded figure of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon 
her white robes, and the evidence of some bitter struggle upon every portion of her emaciated frame, 
.Por a moment she remained tiembling and reeling to and fro upon the threshold — then, with a low 
i£noaning cry, fell heavily inward upon the person of her brother, and in her horrible and now final 
i death-agonies, bore him to the floor a corpse, and a victim to the terrors he had dreaded. 

From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast. The storm was still abroad in all its 
wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway. Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, 
and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued — for the vast house and its sha- 
dows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which 
now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before spoken, as 
extending from the roof of the building, in a zig-zag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this 
lissure rapidly widened — there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind — the entire orb of the satellite 
burst at once upon my sight — my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder — there 
was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters — and the deep and dank 
■^am at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the " House of Usher" 

Note. — The ballad of " The Haunted Palace," introduced in this tale, was published separately, 
. some months ago, in the Baltimore " Museum." 




"We suppose that many persons will be greatly mortified to learn that America was discovered as 
early as the tenth century, which is several centuries previous to its discovery by Columbua\ His 
tame is held so sacred by a large portion of mankind that obstacles are thrown in the way of any at- 
tempt to prove that it was visited long before his biith. 

We by no means wish to lessen the glory acquired by Columbus in his perilous voyage; for we 
have no reason to suppose that he availed himself of any information respecting the prior discovery. 
It is true that he visited Iceland in the early part of his life, and it is probable that he made himself 
acquainted with the western discoveries of the Northmen. But his own famous voyage was made 
in quest of India ; and that he had no reason to suppose them to have discovered the land he was in 
search of, is sufficiently apparent from his never having mentioned their discoveries to the sovereigns 
whose patronage he sought. Had he thought this to be the case, he could have told the sovereigns 
who considered his scheme as visionary, that the country had already been discovered by the North- 
men ; and that he, having visited Iceland in his youth, had made himself perfectly acquainted with 
their discoveries, and had no doubt, in his own mind, of being able to reach this country. This 
would have been the most powerful motive he could have brought forward for making the attempt; 
and it is very probable, had he mentioned it to any of the sovereigns by whom his proposal was re- 
jected, that they, having proof that there really existed a country in the west, would have immediately 
lent him their assistance for the advancement of his design. 

But we have every reason to suppose that America might have been discovered by the Northmen, 
®ven if there were no records to prove it. These people, who were natives of Norway, Sweden, Den- 
IQark, and some of the other northern countries of Europe, were the great navigators of their age. 
Their fleets covered most of the seas by which Europe is surrounded ; they had made conquests in 
Scotland, England, and some other countries, and some of their vessels had sailed through the strait 
of Gibraltar, visited Marseilles in the reign of the emperor Charlemagne, and spread over the whole 
coast of the Mediterranean. That they discovered and colonized Iceland and Greenland before the 
period of their alleged discovery of America, is a matter of undoubted history. Now there is no reason 
to suppose that the Northmen, who had sailed so far as the Mediterreaneaa, would have hesitated to 
cross the strait which separated Greenland from America, being only about two hundred miles in 

Having finished these preliminary observations, we will now give a brief account of the voyages 
made to America by the Northmen in the tenth century. We derive our information on this sub- 
ject principally from a work entitled " Antiquitates Americanae," which has recently been pubUshed 
by the Royal Society of Northern Antiquaries at Copenhagen, a society that has devoted itself to the 
task of rescuing from oblivion the accounts of the early discoveries of the Northmen, which have re- 
mained in the hands of the Icelanders, who had made a respectable progress in literature at the peiiod 
of the discovery, and are known to have maintained a high literary character ever since. The records 
thus preserved by the Icelanders have always been respected by them as authentic, and have pre- 
cisely the same degree of authority with their other national records. They have been comparatively 
neglected by the historians of the south of Europe from a variety of causes, among which it is suffi- 
cient to enumerate the isolated condition of the Icelanders, their small intercourse with the rest of 
Europe, the difficulty of their language, the want of inclination among the historians to publish any 
thing that would derogate from the fame acquired by Columbus, and more than all from the claim 
of the Icelanders to the discovery of America having been confounded with other claims which had 
really no foundation in truth. 

It appears from these Icelandic records as well as from some others which have been coasidered as 
authentic, that the Northmen, who still maintained their enterprising character, shortly after their 
discovery of Iceland, visited Greenland by crossing a narrow strait of one hundred and fifty-eight 
miles in width, and formed settlements on its western coast. The remains of these settlements, such 
as houses, churches, etc., are visible at the present day. Voyages were now not unfrequently made 
from Iceland to Greenland, in the course of one of which, the ship was carried by contrary winds to 
the coast of Labrador. This fact is thus narrated by their historians. 

154 burton's gentleman's biagazine. 

Among the persons who followed Eiic the Eed to Greenland, in 986, was Heriulf Bardson, who 
established himself at Heriulfsnes. He had a son, named Biarne, who at that time was on a distant 
trading voyage ; having finished his business, ho retm^ned to Iceland, but finding that his father had 
departed for Greenland, he resolved to go and seek him. He set sail, but encountered northerly 
winds, by which he was carried from his course, and knew not where he was. When the weather 
cleared up, he saw a land covered with wood, and having many small hills upon it. As this land did 
not correspond with the description of Greenland, he continued sailing for some time, when he again 
discovered land the appearance of which was similar to the oiuer. He again stood out to sea, and in 
a few days arrived safely at Heriulfsnes in Greenland. 

In the 3'ear 994, Biarne visited Eric, earl of Norway, and told him of the lands he had discovered. 
He then returned to Greenland and sold his ship to Leif, a son of Eric, who manned it with thirty- 
five men. They began their voyage in the year 1000, and first discovered the land which Biarne 
had last seen. They cast their anchors and went on shore to seek for some vegetables ; but finding 
none, and the shore being covered with slate, they named it Hellu-Land, (Slate Land.) They again 
set sail, and discovered another shore, on which they also landed. The country was level and covered 
with woods; and they therefore called it Markland, (Woodland.) They sailed from this island in a 
northeasterly direction, and in two days came again in sight of land. They passed an island which 
lay east of the mainland, and went on shore at the mouth of a river. They brought the ship through 
t^e river into the lake in which it rose, where they cast anchor. Determining to pass the winter 
there, they constructed themselves se'ceral large houses. After they were finished, Leif divided his 
men into tvs'o paities, one of which was to remain to guard the houses, while the other made small 
incursions into the country ; he had ordered this party to go no farther than that they could return 
in the course of the evening of the same day. One day, a German, named Tyrkir, was missing. 
Leif with a small party went in search of him ; but they had not gone far before they met him coming 
towards them. Leif inquired where he had been. He answered : " I did not go much farther, yet 
I have a discovery to acquaint you with ; I have found vines and grapes." The party had now two 
occupations, viz., to hew timber for loading the ship, and to gather grapes. With these last they 
loaded the ship's long boat. They called this country Vinland, (Vineland,) on account of the vines 
which they found there. In the spring they set sail, and arrived safe at Greenland. 

After Leifs return to Greenland, his voyage to Vineland became a subject of frequent conversa- 
tion. Thorwald, his brother, thinking the country had not been sufficiently explored, resolved to 
pay it a visit. He accordingly borrowed Leif's ship, and set sail in 1002. He arrived at Leifsbooth 
in Vineland, where he passed the winter. In the next spring, he sent a small paity in the ship's 
long boat on a voyage of discovery southwards. The country was very beautiful ; but they could 
discover no traces of men, excepting on a small island to the westward, where they found a wooden 
shed. They did not return until fall. Thorwald left this place in the summer of 1004, and passed 
a headland which, from its form, he called Kial-ar-nes, (Keel Cape.) They then sailed along the 
eastern coast of the island to a promontory where they landed. When about to go on board they 
discovered three hillocks, and on going to them, they found three canoes, under each of which were 
three Esquimaux ; they killed eight of them, but the ninth made his escape. He returned with a 
great multitude of his countrymen from the interior of the hay. The Esquimaux discharged their 
arrows at the Europeans for some time and then retired. Thorwald was mortally wounded with one 
of their anovvs, and feehng that he could not long survive, he charged his companions to bury him 
on the promontory, with a cross at his head, and another at his feet, and to call the place Kioss-a- 
ness, (Cross Cape.) They did as he had ordered them, and passed the winter there ; in the spring 
they returned to Greenland, and gave an account of their voyage to Leif. 

Thorstein, Eric's third son, in attempting to proceed to Vineland to bring away his brother's body, 
was tossed about upon the ocean during the whole summer, and knew not where he was driven : but 
early in the winter, he landed at one of the western settlements of Greenland, where he died. His 
wife, Gudrida, who had accompanied him in this voyage, returned to Ericsford the following spring. 

In the summer of 1006, there arrived in Greenland two ships from Iceland ; one was commanded 
by Karlsefue, the other by Biarne Grimolfson and Thorhall Gamlason. During the winter Karlsefue 
was marTied to Gudrida. In the following spring an expedition was fitted out, consisting of three 
ships and one hundred and sixty men. They first landed at Hellu-Land, and two days afterwards 
they came to Markland, a country covered with woods. Leaving this, and sailing in a southwesterly 
direction, they came to Kial-ar-nes, which was covered with sands and trackless deserts. Going 
forward they found several inlets. There were two Scots among the party, who were very swift of 
foot. These were put on shore and told to proceed in a southwest direction. After the lapse of 
three days they returned, bringing with them some grapes and ears of wheat. They then continued 
their course till they came to a firth at the mouth of which was an island, past which there ran strong 
currents. This land they called Straum-ey, (Stream Isle,) and the firth Straum-Fiordr, (Stream 
Firth.) Thorhall and eight men, now went towards the north, in search of Vineland, but were 
driven by westerly winds on the coast of Iceland, where they were seized and treated as slaves. The 
rest of the company sailed southwards, and arrived at a place where a river, rising in a lake, empties 
into the sea. At the mouth of the river were several large islands. They steered into the lake and 



called tlie place H op. One morning they saw a large number of the natives approaching in canoes. 
These people were very sallow and ill-looking. After gazing at the ship a short time, they rowed 
away to the southwest. Karlsefue and his company erected their dwellings near the bay, where 
they passed the winter. They were early one morning again surprised by some of the natives, who 
immediately fell to trading with them. While the trade was going on, a bull belonging to Karlsefue 
came out of the woods and bellowed loudly. On hearing this, the natives rushed into their boats and 
rowed swiftly away. In the following winter, the natives again came in great numbers, and showed 
signs of hostility. Karlsefue advanced against them, and a battle ensued. The natives had a sort of 
sling with which they discharged huge stones among Karlsefue's people, who became terrified, and 
fled in all directions. Freydisa, a natural daughter of Eric, who was with them, cried out : " How 
can stout men like you fly from these miserable caitiffs, whom I thought you could knock down like 
cattle ! If I had only a weapon, I ween I could fight better than you !" They did not listen to her 
words, ])ut continued their flight. She endeavored to keep up with them but was not able ; she, 
however, followed them into the woods, where she found the dead body of Thorbrand Snorrason, 
whose sword was lying by his side. This she picked up, and, uncovering her breast, struck it with 
the naked sword. At this sight the natives became terrified and fled to their canoes. Karlsefue 
now determined to leave this country, and having left part of his crew at Vineland, he sailed towards 
Greenland : on his way thither he stopped at Markland, where he met with five Esquimaux. The 
crew seized two of them, (boys,) whom they carried with them to Ericsford, in Greenland, where 
they arrived in safety. 

In the summer of 1011 another voyage was fitted out for Vineland. The ship belonged to two 
brothers, Helge and Finuboge, who entered into the agreement with Freydisa, that they should share 
equally all the profits with her. A coldness arose between them and Freydisa, owing to her having 
introduced more men into the ship than was agreed upon ; and a short time after, Freydisa prevailed 
on her husband to massacre the two brothers and their followers. After the perpetration of this base 
deed they returned to Greenland about the time that Karlsefue was ready to sail for Norway, (1013.) 
He set sail, spent the following winter there, and in 1014 went to Iceland, where he purchased an 
estate, on which he resided during the remainder of his life. A numerous and illustrious family 
descended from him, among whom we may mention the bishop Thoriak Eunolfson. It is probable 
that the account of the voyages here mentioned was originally compiled by him . 

The particular places discovered and visited by the Northmen have been satisfactorily ascertained. 
Hellu-Land is the same with Newfoundland; Markland, with Nova Scotia. Vinland is Nantucket; 
Kialarnes, Cape Cod; The Straum Fiordr, Buzzards Bay. Straum-ey is, Martha's Vineyard; 
Kross-a-ncss, Gurnet Point ; and H op, the country through which the Taunton river flows. 
fit Such were the discoveries and settlements of the Northmen in America in the tenth and eleventh 
centuries. They were at first driven there by accident ; but afterwards repeatedly visited it, and 
formed several settlements on the coast. The question may now arise, if there were, really colonies 
in x\merica, why were they abandoned 1 We say in the first place, that they were abandoned be- 
cause the colonies in Greenland, from which they received their supplies of food, clothing, etc., were 
abandoned ; and secondly, because the Northmen had settled themselves in the southern parts of 
Europe, and now, being in a better country, they felt no inclination to hazard such distant and 
dangerous voyages, since they had not the aid of the mariner's compass, which was not invented till 
some centuries after these events had taken place. 



The bright moon of summer looks down from the 
And sleeps silently on thro' the regions of night ; 
And while we pursue her still course upon 
We deem it the pathway of glory and light. 
And the scenes that she smiles on, illum'd by her 
Look fairer than when they were touch'd by the 
And come to the heart with a lovelier sway, 
Than in day's full effulgence they ever had done. 

But the smile that enchants, and the glory that 
With a lustre more pure, and a radiance more 
Is the sunshine of worth that unfadingly gleams, 

Where Beauty and Virtue together unite. 
The moon will look forth when the tempest is gone, 
And the clouds that obscured her, have vanished 
away — 
But Virtue's pure ray shines unceasingly on. 
With a light that no cloud and no tempest can 




{Extracted, ly permission of the Publishers, Messrs. Carey and Hart, from the forthcoming vo- 
lume of the " Literary Souvenir."] 

Though now this grained face of mine be hid 
In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, 
And all the conduits of my life froze up ; 
Yet hath my night of life some memory, 
My wasting lamp some fading glimmer kft. 


Out upon time ! it will leave no more 

Of the things to come than the things before ! 

Out upon time ! who for ever will leave 

But enough of the past for the future to grieve 

O'er that which hath been, and o'er that which must be : 

What we have seen, our sons shall see ; 

Remnants of things that have passed away, 

Fragments of stone reared by creatures of clay. 


Nothing annoys me, in my enforced removal from the home of my childhood, so much as the 
dilapidated state of an old bureau, which is positively too shattered by the knocks of " the scythe 
aaan" to admit the possibility of another transplantation in a state of entirety. It is indeed a vene™ 
rable relic, and has been the repository of the secrets of our family for a century of twelvemonths. 
My father's parent, the formal dispenser of colonial law, secured in one of its secret drawers his pa- 
tent of appointment, graced with the kingly signature of the second George. My father placed 
■within its pigeon holes the sage records of his comrades, the rebellious colonists, who threw off the 
foul yoke of dependance upon the magnates of a distant land, and gave liberty to their fellow men» 

I love this antique piece of furniture Uke a thing of positive life. It has been an old friend to me, 
in whose bosom I have deposited many a strange matter ; and the withdrawal of its contents will 
bring back the recollection of bye-gone days, with all their burning thoughts, and the exploded chi- 
meras of that false prophet, hope. I shall again behold, in my mind's eye, the old familiar faces of 
my buried friends — and foes. I shall again live over the painful events of my long, long life, and 
open the sluices «f my age-clogged, tide-worn heart — for there are some few matters in the recesses 
of that old bureau which I cannot leave to be desecrated by the workman's touch. 

How the rust has eaten into the works of the lock, and destroyed the action of the hinges ! the 
corroding sand of old Chronos spares neither man nor metal. Now, the strangely-mixed contents 
of the bureau are before me. The topmost letter of this pile reminds me of a painful but salutary 
lesson taught me in my earliest manhood. It is a cold and caustic acknowledgment of a written 
apology which my stern but honest parent insisted that I should send to a young lady, who, having 
refused my addresses, had been subsequently slightly spoken of by me, in the silliness of my revenge. 
My apology, ample in its regrets and confessions, was published at my father's express desire. — 
" Scandal," said he, " is the living emblem of a low and narrow mind. Its practice depraves the 
heart and degrades the man." I have never forgotten the sterling beauty of that simple truth. 

This golden toy — this gaudily-embossed box — was presented to me by various of my fellow citi- 
zens, as an acknowledgment of my services in obtaining from the state-government, a charter for an 
institution which lasted but a year or two, and resulted in heavy mortification and pecuniary loss. 
This establishment was to afford invaluable blessings to society — at least, so said the prospectus, and 
the members of the state legislature had the phrase stereotyped for general use, Every trace of its 
existence has passed away, excepting the dull inscription on the lid of my presented box. 

In the golden interior of this box, a fitting coffer for a priceless relic, lies a ringlet of a lady's hair. 


It belonged to my affianced — nay, my wedded bride. She was the chosen object of my heart's best 
love, and beautiful as the highest-wrought imaginings of a young lover could desire. On the mom~ 
ing of our wedding day, we embarked on board a sloop bound for her father's residence on the Hud- 
son's bank. There were no steamboats then, to render positive the certainty of a safe and speedy 
trip ; the slow craft worked its devious way along the windings of the river, and was unable, if the 
wind lulled, to'stem the downward current of the mountain stream. On this day, the day of my 
wedded bliss, I cared not for the dull drifting of our sloop ; my young wife stood upon the smalt 
deck of the vessel, and leaircd her head upon my shoulder, as I pointed out to her the various scenfe 
beauties of the water and the wold. A puff of wind gushed down the hill side, and rippled the 
river's face. It was the breath of God, and spoke of death. The sloop was blown upon its beam 
ends, and we were precipitated into the stream. A spar struck my bride upon her head — she sunk 
almost within my grasp. Hours elapsed before her corse was given to my care. I received my 
young and lovely wife, with the slime of the river's bed upon her bridal vestments ; her beauteous^ 
face was disfigured by the death blow, and the marks of the foul drag-hook were imprinted on her 
limbs. I kissed hsr honey lips, and cutting a ringlet from her blood-stained brow, consigned her t* 
the grave's fast keep. Three score and ten winters have shed their snows since my widowed heart 
grieved at the death of its mistress — other tics and affections have occupied my mind, and I have 
subsequently known the pangs of v^'o in all its thousand grades — but never felt an agony to equal- 
that with which I mourned my virgin bride's decease. 

* * « * * * * 

Ha ! here is the honored autograph of V/ashington appended to a letter, thanking me for the ex- 
ecution of certain orders entrusted to my care, during the perilous times of the war-doings in Penn- 
sylvania. I well remember the pride with which I handed the memorial of my well-doing to my 
brother officers, and the hearty nature of their honest congratulations. I rode thirty miles to exhibit' 
my beloved chief's commendation to my venerable parents; the snow was on the ground, and the- 
enemy's videttes scoured the line of country through which I passed. But I defied all difficulties,, 
and with a light heart and a trusty steed, achieved the end of my journey in safety. Ah ! even- 
now, methinks I see the tears that coursed down the furrows in my mother's cheeks, as she listened' 
to my recital of (he dangers I had overcome. Methinks I feel the firm pressure of my father's hand, 
as, with a trembling voice, he read alovtd the commendations of our country's warrior, and exulted; 
in the praises bestowed upon his patriot boy ! 

How confusedly the mementos of the past incidents of life present themselves to notice ! Here' 
are two letters of invitation from persons of extremest opposition — the small envelope contains s 
note on delicate tinted paper from Mrs. Madison, politely requesting my late wife to honor the Pre- 
sident's soirees with her presence. It would be difficult to conceive a greater perfection of enjoyment 
than that afforded by those elegant assemblies. The other letter, bulky and burly, is in the hand- 
writing of Knyphausen, the general of the Hessian force, which, adjunctive to the British, occupied 
Philadelphia in 1777-8. The conductors of the celebiated Meschianza, a fete given by the officers 
of the British army to their commander-in-chief. Sir William Howe, previous to the surrender of his- 
authority into the hands of Sir Henry Clinton, had invited the principal belles of the city to partake 
the mumming glories of the carnival-like procession and display. To the shanre of the sex be it 
said, that many of the daughters of the first families in Philadelphia were unable to resist the temp- 
tation, and, donning romantic and stage-made dresses, joined the enemies of their country in doing 
homage to the hostile chief, who then held violent possession of our native city. My sister, a lovely- 
girl, some ten j'ears younger than myself, had attracted the attentions of more than one of the gal- 
lant officers belonging to the Biitish force. General Knyphausen, who, from his politeness to the- 
American citizens, had made himself a favorite in all circles, addressed to my sister a pressing invi^ 
tation to become one of " the Fair Damsels of the Blended Rose," who, in foreign attire, were to 
preside over the destinies of the combatants in the tilt or tourney. The General also requested per- 
mission to dedicate his sword to her beauty, and be recognised as her champion in the fight. My 
sister, unadvised, returned the General's letter with a polite assurance that he must have misdirected' 
it ; it was impossible that he could imagine her so basely-minded as to bend the knee submissively 
to him who was hostilely ravaging her native land, or wish success even to the sportive efforts of the- 
sword which had been raised against the lives of her dearest friends. Knyphausen's answer is be- 
fore me. He gallantly compliments the lady's patriotism, but laments the severity of its practice,, 
although he acknowledges the correctness of her reasoning. 

The son of this same Knyphausen excited the laughter of the European magnates by assuming, 
at the congress of sovereigns at Aix-la-Chapelle, the airs and state of an independent prince. The 
name of Knyphausen, or Kniephausen, is derived from a small castle in a German duchy ; some 
half dozen houses and about fifty inhabitants, comprise the feudalities of this petty lordship ; the- 
title of which is now in abeyance, by order of the German diet, in consequence of the late owner 

having joined the Holy Alliance. 


In the centre compartment of the old bureau is a drinking cup formed of the skull of a New Zea- 
and warrior, and presented to me by my son, as the only thing rescued from the insatiate waves 

158 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

when shipwrecked on a reef off the Florida Keys. The gallant vessel, with all its world of wealth, 
sunk to the bottom, and gave forth no portion of its riches to the survivors of the desolate and help- 
less crew ; who, by the boat's help, had clustered on a small but rocky island, and wondered to what 
end their lives had been preserved. After two days and nights of hunger and suspense, they were 
relieved by the rough humanity of a Gulf wrecker, v/ho freighted his rickety bark with a cargo of 
destitute sailors, from whom it was impossible to obtain either payment or reward. But the old fel- 
low gave up his stores to the starving mariners, and succeeded in landing them in safety at Havana. 
As my son was quitting the reef, he observed the skull cup in one of the clefts of a rock, by the wa- 
ter side, wherein it had been driven by the action of the waves. He picked up the only available 
token of the wreck, and preserved it during his passage home. It had been a choice utensil with 
the drowned captain of the wrecked vessel, who used to declare that he had seen the body of the 
■owner of the skull devoured by his conquerors, the inhabitants of a South Sea Island. He, the cap- 
tain, had made the usual conciliatory piesents to the chief of the cannibals, and, in return, received 
the cranium of the latest victim, as a token of peace and good will. 

The cup, or skull, contains a strange assemblage of articles : they are the unwritten pages of my 
son's life — and death. He was my only child. I wedded his mother at an age when the passions 
of youth no longer exercise despotic sway. But I loved her with a tenderness that ensured felicity. 
We adored our child with a reverence scarcely human ; his early fate broke his mother's heart — she 
died, clasping this locket which contains a curl of his golden hair, cut on the first arniiversary of his 

Here is a silver chain and boatswain's whistle ; it was the gift of a grateful sailor whose life had 
been saved by my son, then a midshipman aboard one of the frigates forming part of the first Ame- 
rrican squadron, which put to sea three days after the declaration of war between Great Britain and 
the United States, in June, 1812. During a heavy squall, a boatswain's mate fell overboard; my 
son, catching one of the sheets in his grasp, jumped over the ship's side with such celerity that he 
had firm hold of the man before he entered the vessel's wake. Whilst swimming towards the sailor, 
my son twisted the end of the rope round his left arm ; there was considerable way on the frigate, 
and when the rope had run out its length, the force and suddenness of the shock broke my boy's 
;arm — but he held on to the sinking man, and, when the vessel was hove to, they were hoisted aboard ; 
the vuate senseless, and my son with his broken limb hanging useless by his side. 

The SL^man soon recovered, and his gratitude towards the preserver of his life exhibited itself in 
positive devoticn to his welfare. A few weeks' confinement was necessary to the well-knitting of 
the broken bone ; til? boatswain's mate attended his patient with unremitting assiduity and kindness. 
The heroic nature of tti? act, and the quiet endurance of the agony which necessarily accompanied 
the continued strain upon the fractured Umb, rendered the young midshipman a favorite both with 
the ofiicers and men. His bravery was afterwards exhibited in one of the severe conflicts which 
have placed the name of the frigate on a conspicuous page of our naval history. He returned to 
port with the reputation of a hero, ana participated largely in the compliments bestowed upon the 
defenders of the stars and the stripes. 

The boatswain's mate, obtaining a few days' leave of absence, journeyed from Boston to Phila- 
delphia, for the purpose of easing his grateful heart by detailing to the parents of his preserver the 
means of his deliverance from a sea grave. Methinks, even now, I see the rough sailor recapitula- 
ting to his delighted auditors the minute particulars of the fall and rescue. His thick bushy whisk- 
ers encircled a dark weather-beaten face ; his sailor's shirt appeared in thick folds between his jacket 
and trousers ; a small tarpaulin hat was placed beneath his chair ; his conversation was interlarded 
with sea slang and horrible oaths, and he squirted tobacco juice over the bright dog irons and polish- 
ed mantel-sides. Yet a more welcome visiter never sat upon our hearth — for he talked, with love 
and reverence, of our darling son. 

When he rose to depart, I pressed on him the hospitalities of the night, but in vain. His purpose 
was accomplished, and he started instantly on his return to his ship. I offered him some pecuniary 
assistance on his journey ; his small eyes glittered as he answered — 

" No, no, master. I made sail here to tell you what I knew your son wouldn't tell himself. I 
know'd that it was impossible that the parents of sich a ship-shape craft as he couldn't do no less 
nor love him, and I wanted you to larn as he was worth loving. I didn't want to make your num- 
ber for the sake of a supply of beef and biskit, but I didn't object to a can of flip with the father of 
Mm as saved my life. Good bye, ma'am. Don't you be afraid of your son's safety ; he's got me 
to look arter him now, and I means to keep atween him and ill-luck, if it fall's in my watch. I han t 
got nothing worth your having as a keepsake from me, ma'am, except my chain and whistle. Please 
keep it, to think of him what loves your son as much as you do. I can get another from the purser. 
So saying, he threw his only ornament around the neck of my wife, and, with a low bow, and a 
hitch at his trousers, started for the door. 

At one of the fetes given in honor of the frigate's victory, my son danced with a young lady, the 
daughter of one of the chiefest merchants in New York. She was lively, handsome, and fascina- 
ting, and soon enchained her partner in her toils. Proud of her captive, she lent a ready ear to his 
fond asseverations, and in a few days, I received intelligence of their marriage. The news struck 


me as with a blight : I had no fault to find with the object of his choice, for she was rich, well-born, 
and highly educated — but I dreaded evil, thoui^h I knew not why. I leprehended my son for his 
hasty proceeding — for not consulting with his patents, or even acquainting thorn with his intentions 
till they had been effected. He pleaded haste — the force of love — the dread of being ordered in- 
stantly to sea — and the probability of losing the object of his affections. His doting mother accord- 
ed him her forgiveness, and interceded with me in his behalf. In a few days, the young husband 
and his girlish wife were domesticated beneath our roof. 

The frigate's repairs were soon completed, and she was again under sailing orders. My son flew 
to his station, leaving his bride, in strong hysterics, reclining in her mother's arms. I saw nothing 
of her during the absence of my son, and she neglected to answer our letters. Rumor, with its mys- 
terious knowledge of unseen events and thousand means of propagation, spoke lightly of her con- 
duct, and hinted at the general levity of her behavior in society at New York, but I was unable to 
collect any positive evidence of impropriety. The presentiment of coming evil giew stronger with- 
in me, and but a short time elapsed before my woi'st anticipations were fulfilled. 

Again did victory sit upon the prow of the noble frigate, and again did my son nobly bear his 
share of the danger and the glory of the cruize. On his return to port, he hastened to the arms of 
his wife, but found her not. She was from home, but her parents could not assign the place of her 
sojourn, nor the name of the family to whom the pretended visit was being paid. It was impossible 
to silence the mouths of the many ; my son found his young wife in a neighboring village, residing, 
under a false name, beneath the same roof with a married man — a fellow notorious for his unprinci- 
pled gallantries and shameless desertion of his victims. The husband demanded reparation for the 
injury committed upon his honor : the seducer sneered at his impetuosity, and declared that the lady- 
was not worth fighting for, as he had merely offered her a little consolation in her husband's absence, 
who was now most heartily welcome to his wife again. A violent blow stopped the current of the 
heartless rufHan's impudence. It was impossible for him to submit to this pubhc insult, and an im- 
mediate meeting was demanded. In one hour, my heart-stricken boy had fallen a victim to the skill 
and coolness of the practised duellist; the bullet passed into his body, severely injuring the spine in 
its passage. He died, in bloody agony, writhing on the ground like a hurt snake. His honorable 
murderer gazed upon the deaih pangs of his antagonist with unabashed effrontery; and when the 
last struggle had taken place, he sent his officiating friend to the lady, with his respects, and as he 
was about departing from that neighbor-hood, he wished to know if she intended to bear him com- 
pany. In a few months, she died while giving birth to a dead child— the fruit of her illicit amour. 

Here, at the bottom of the skull of the cannibal, is the murderer's bullet, extracted from the body 
of my son. A shred of blue cloth, a portion of his coat, still adhei-es to the flattened lead, as it was 
forced into the wound — but the blood of my child has altei-ed its original tint. 

I have mentioned his mother's death as the result of the fate of her beloved boy. The boatswain's 
mate never forgave himself foi neglecting to guard over the welfare of his preserver. He swore 
eternal vengeance, and made anxious inquiries as to the whereabouts of the seducer, but without ef- 
fect. Shortly after the termination of the war, the sailor heard that the murderer had joined the 
army, and was quartered at New Orleans. He instantly undertook the long and perilous journey, 
and on his arrival there, found that his information was correct. The rulSan was pointed out while 
he was walking on the Levee — the sailor struck him a violent blow with his fist, and bade him re- 
member Lieutenant . The officer rose, and as the other was again rushing at him, buried his 

bowie knife in the seaman's breast. 

The seducer still lives; he associates with men of mark and public estimation, and is accounted 
an honorable man. Twice lately has my sight been blasted by his smiling visage in the open streets. 
His presence checks the very current of my blood ; and while the direst craving for revenge dilates 
my heart, I feel my impotence, and curse my failing age. My wife's death, my son's blood, the 
slaughter of the brave seaman, and the untimely fate of the infatuated girl — all — all — rest upon his 
soul — and yet he smiles ! he revels in the graces of fortune, and enjoys the esteem of all mankind. 
The world goes well with him — but I am childless — wifeless — friendless — and yet I have not sinned! 

Here, in this pigeon-hole, are some singular papers, worthy a longer preservation. Here is the 
certificate of ray registry amongst the members of the Queen Charlotte Fire Company of Philadel- 
phia, some half dozen years before the final rapture between the colonies and the mother country. 
In those days, the most aristocratic fiimilies deemed it their duty to attend to the care of the various 
engines, and their attendant hooks, buckets, and ladders. I doubt much if the whole of the present 
race of tight-coated and tight-strapped dandies, with their effeminate lispings and conceited strut 
could have drasged one of our rude and heavy fire machines along the rough unpaved ground — or 
have mustered sufficient strength of mind and energy of purpose to have framed and issued the De- 
claration of Independence. 

Here is a letter from Dr. Franklin to my father, with the details of an improved lightning rod, in- 
vented by the philosopher, and afterwards placed, under his directions, upon our country house in 
Shippen street. Here, too, is the first number of the first magazine ever printed in America, called 
"The General Magazine and Monthly Chronicle for the British Plantations in America. By Ben- 

TOI,. T. NO. III. G 2. 


burton's gentleman's magazine. 

jamin Frrnklin. January, 1741." On the cover, my father's name is written in a strange cramped 
hand, with this addition — " from his friend B. F., who desires a sincere opinion." The poor state 
of the printing and the coarseness of the paper present a striking contrast to tlie elegant periodicals 
of the present day. 

Here are letters on law matters from Aaron Burr, to whose name the stigma of treason has been 
attached for attempting that which has conferred glory upon the heroes of Texas and Canada. 

Here are two miniatures, each depicting a lovely and a youthful face, which, in its day, has been 
the object of my love — but the emotions which they excited in my heart were of the opposite de- 
grees of passion — the boy's senseless adoration of the pretty face of his first sweetheart, and the 
calm fondness of a brother for the sisterly companion of his declining age. 

Eliza H , " my boyhood's love," was a lively girl, but some few years my senior. She was 

the daughter of one of the first citizens of Philadelphia, who boasted that his father's father assisted 
WilUam Penn from the boat, when he first placed his foot upon the Delaware shore. Eliza was a 
mad coquette — a romp, who playfully robbed you of your heart, and when, in sober earnestness, 
you pressed your suit, amused herself by laughing at the agonies of her victim, and wondering at 
his presumptuous boldness. I was fearfully in love with her, and at one time believed that I had 
inspired her with a reciprocal passion ; but when I ventured upon a declaration, she laughed with 
unrestrained heartiness at " the boy's assurance," and threatened to have me whipped if I mention- 
ed love again. My wounded pride cured my love, upon the principle of counter-irritation. Ehza 
married a Quaker residing in New Jersey, became the mother of numerous children, and died, about 
thirty years since, a withered toothless dame. 

My sister, the subject of the other miniature, has also passed through the gates of death. We 
saw her married to the man of her heart — she was the mother of three babes — the centre of a de- 
lighted circle of friends. The last visitation of the yellow pestilence removed her and her children 
from that earth which she had assisted to render heavenly. Her husband deeply felt his loss ; he 
neglected his business, and eventually failed. He encouraged a propensity to indulge in the false 
excitement of intemperance — a few months finished his career. 

I am now alone — alone in this wide unfriendly world. I have been twice wedded — have been a 
father, i ejoicing in the noble bearing of my manly child ; I have proudly gazed upon my sister's pro- 
geny, and traced with a delighted eye the softened likeness of my venerable parent in the youthful 
lineaments before me. But I am now alone. My acquaintances are of another race of men ; I have 
no fellow-feeling, no community of interests with these creations of yesterday. My habits and 
thoughts are those of a by-gone age. I have outlived the current of the times. 

I dare not say, with the Indian woman who, having attained an enormous age, had seen, like me, 
all her relations and fi lends committed to the earth — " I do not die, because God hath forgotten me" 
The painful events with which the Almighty has been pleased to afflict me are evidence that I have 
not been forgotten ; but, in bowing my head to the chastening blow, I anticipate an hereafter reward 
in the presence of the beloved beings who have been called before me to a state of bliss — " for whom 
the Lord loveth, he chasteneth — blessed be the name of the Ijord." 



I love to watch the slcepiiig ehild, 
A playful, cherub boy — 

The mother's smile of tenderness^ 
Her swelling, heavenly joy. 

I love the maiden's dewy eye, 
Her softly pencil'd cheek. 

Like flushings of the sun-set hour 
Upon a snowy peak. 

I love to hear the hoary man 
Repeat his perils o'er — 

And read his shifting book of life, 
A chronicle of yore. 

I love the faintly echoing horn — 
The rushing, bounding chase — 

The fearless leap of huntsmen bold 
Across a chasm place. 

I love to catch, at summer eve, 

The mellow music-note 
Of merry voices on the lake. 

Where glides the white-winged boat. 

But, more than all, I love my home, 

The lowly, narrow cot — 
I would not barter with a king, 

A steepy, sea-side spot. 

A C H A P T E K 




It may be truly said, that the revival of Gymnastics, so long buried under the ruins of antiquity, 
is one of the greatest advancements yet made in the science of education, and not among the least 
conspicuous improvements of the present enlightened age. Every one who reflects — every one who 
knows anything, knows, and by experience, how intimate a connexion there exists between body 
and mind — how invariably the healthy or sickly temperament of the one influences that of the other; 
that when the body is strong, healthy, and active, so is the mind cheerful and elastic, and that when 
the former is sickly and diseased, so is the latter languid and depressed. The ancient Greeks and 
Romans understood this; and their education was accordingly directed to the development, not only 
of the mental, but also of the corporeal powers; and this corporeal branch of education was termed 

The earliest account we have of gymnastic exercises is in Homer's Iliad, book the twenty-third, 
in which are described the games celebrated at the funeral of Patroclus. The Grecian gymnastics 
consisted of chariot racing, boxing, wrestling, foot races, drawing the bow, hurling javelins, etc. 

Plato states, that one Herodicus introduced this art into physic ; and Hippocrates, who lived at a 
later period, recommended it ; but as physicians did not adopt all the exercises of the gymnastic art, 
it came to be divided between them and the teachers of warlike and athletic exercises, who kept 
schools for the purpose. 

From Greece, gymnastic exercises were imported into the Roman empire, where the young mer\ 
were exercised in athletic sports in a large plain, by the side of the Tiber, called the Campus Mar- 
tius, or in public schools, termed Gymnasia, or Palestrae ; but as the amusements did not differ ma- 
terially from those in Greece, it is unnecessary to describe them. 

In the middle ages, when education got into the hands, and was at the sole disposal of the monks, 
it is not surprising that Gymnastics altogether disappeared. The lords of the soil indeed, knights 
and princes, contended at their splendid tilts and tournaments ; but the mass of the people were de« 
graded and enslaved, the more effectually to administer to the pleasures and the pride of their oj- 
pressors. This age of chivalry, as it was termed, passed away however in succeeding ages ; even 
these knightly games became extinct, and Gymnastics, gradually losing ground, were at length re- 
duced to the very name, known possibly to some musty philosophers who might have stumbled on 
it in their insane, because indiscriminate, enthusiasm for whatever might bear the stamp of barba- 
rism or antiquity. 

The nearest approach to the true exercises of the Gymnasium proper, of which we find an ac 
count in any of the British records, is to be met with in the " Sports and Pastimes" of Joseph Stiutt. 

" Hopping-matches for prizes," he says, " were occasionally made in the sixteenth century, as we 
learn from John Heywoode, the epigrammatist. In his Proverbs are the following lines : 

Where wooers hoppe in and out, long time may bring 
Him that hoppeth best, at last to have the ring — 
— I hoppying without for a ringe of a rushe. 

162 ' burton's gentleman's magazine. 

And again, in a play called the four P's, by the same author, one of the characleis is directed to 
-* hop upon one foot ;' and another says — 

Here were a hopper to hop for the ring." 

Mention is also made of the Ladder-Dance — " so called because the performer stands upon a ladder, 
which he shifts from place to place, and ascends or descends, without losing the equilibiium, or per- 
mitting it to fall." 

In regard to those mere feats of agility and dexterity, for which our tumblers, rope-dancers, and 
circus-riders are now famous, we meet with enough to prove that they have been at all times prac- 
tised in England, and indeed throughout Europe, and many other portions, both of the civilized and 
uncivilized world; but the practice of gymnastic exercises, as a system, for the useful purposes of 
invigorating the body and imparting elasticity to the mind, has been only lately revived from anti- 
quity. To Professors Gutsmuths and Jahn, the merit of the discovery and revival of this long lost 
art, — " this lelic of an age gone by," — is more particularly due. After a careful examination of the 
structure of the human body, they devised numerous exercises, arranged them in a well adapted se- 
ries, and again restored Gymnastics to something lite their former rank and importance. 

It was in Denmark that these exercises were first consideied in a national point of view; and in. 
1803 the number of gymnastic establishments in that country had amounted to fourteen, in which 
three thousand young men were educated. Indeed, on the continent generally, the system spread. 

In many towns of Germany and Switzerland, Gymnasia were established. The youth, and even 
.grown men, soon derived more pleasure from exercises which fortified, than from pleasures which 
paralized, the powers of their bodies. By the consciousness of increased vigor, the mind, too, be- 
came powerfully excited, and strove for equal perfection ; and the constant ambition of every pupil 
■was to veiify in his own instance, the truth of the adage, " Mens sana in corpore sana — A sound 
/inind in a healthy hodi/." Even the naturally iirdolent were irresistibly carried awav by the zeal 
of their comrades; persons, diseased and weakly, recovered their health, for the restoration of which 
these exercises were possibly the only effectual remedy. The certificates of physicians wherever 
Gymnastics were introduced, concurred as to their healthful tendency, nor were the highest testimo- 
nials from parents and teachers found wanting. Indeed, all young men who cultivated them, were 
acknowledged to have impioved in health and morals, and to have acquired an open, fiee, and grace- 
ful deportment. For many years past, Gymnastics have been introduced into England, and have 
met with decided success. They have been patronized by the govenrment — have been adopted in 
-the army ; in the Royal Military, and Naval Schools ; besides the Charter-house, and many private 
establishments. Private Gymnasia, too, have also appe ired in various parts of the metropolis, 
and received considerable encouragemeirt. But in order to render Gymnastics generally beneficial, 
and to secure to them a permanent and a national basis, a Public Gymnasium was at length esta- 
blished in several parts of London and the environs, for the admission of all persons of character and 
respectability, and on terms as irearly as possible proportioned to their pecuniary abilities. Its con- 
duct and regulation were placed under the management of a society, formed by their own body. 

That such institutions are desirable in large cities, will be obvious to all who reflect on the impos- 
sibility of persons whose employments are sedentary, attaining, after the confinement and anxiety of 
the day, a requisite portion of healthful exercise and excitement to recruit and exhilarate the spirit, 
and restore the tone of languid nature. This object, it will be admitted, is not accomplished by the 
dull, monotonous, and even the pernicious practice of listlessly strolling about the streets without a 
definite or a useful motive; still less, by dissipating the remnant of their already abused faculties in 
the unhallowed atmosphere of the tavern or the club. To the clerk, this course will but accelerate 
the mischief arising from eight or ten hours' " dry drudgery at the desk's dead wood ;" to the aitizaa 
it is not calculated to ensure peaceful slumbers, and to enable him to meet the duties of the morrow 
-*' with nerves new-braced and spirits cheered." 

In hypochondriacal, and all other melancholy disorders, people are too apt to acquire the notion, 
that mind alone is concerned ; whereas, the body will usually be found to own at least an equal 
share, if not indeed the original, of the evil. There is a mutual re-action between them, and by les- 
sening it on one side, you diminish the pain on both. Hypochondria is the name of one of the re- 
gions of the stomach — a very instructive etymology. The blood of a melancholy man is thick and 
slow ; that of a lively man, clear and quick. A natural conclu^iun therefore, is, that the remedy 
would be found in putting the blood into action, " By ceaseless action all that is, suteists." Ex- 
ercise is the best means of effecting it, as the impulse given by artificial stimuli is too sudden, the 
effect too transitory, and the cost to nature too great. Plato had so high an opinion of the medici- 
nal powers of exercise for disorders of the mind, that he said it was even a cure for a wounded con- 

The want of exercise, says Dr. Blackmore, is a preparatory cause of the gout, and this is war- 
ranted by long experience ; for instance, the sedentary lawyer, and the unwearied student who con- 
tinually converse with their books, and seldom employ themselves in exercise, thereby often con- 



tract the gout. The sauntering, supine, and oscitant gentleman, by his birth and great possessions, 
exempt from labor and exercise, therefore is entitled to diseases." 

" If much study," says Dr. Cheyne, " be joined to the want of exercise, it becomes then douhly 
prejudicial, and will, if long pursued, ruin the strongest constitutions. 

" Hard study never foils to destroy the appetite, and produce all the symptoms already enumera- 
ted, W'ith headaches, vertigoes, costiveness, wind, crudities, apoplexies, and palsy. 

" If inactivity and want of exercise are joined with luxury, the solids become relaxed and weak- 
ened, and the acrimony of the salts and hiunors gradually increase, then chronical disorders are pro- 
duced, such as gout, erysipelas, rheumatisms, -with all the pains, miseries, and torments arising in 
this low sunk state of the constitution." 

It is difficult to convince sedentary people, but it is a duty to attempt persuading them, that their 
usual habits waste the spirits, destroy health, and shorten life. Hundreds in each of our large cities 
die every year for want of exercise. 

It is by no means necessary that we should cultivate Gymnastics " after the manner of the an- 
cients," but only so for as may be requisite to maintain the even tenor of existence. The state of 
society in towns continually imposes obstructions to health, and offers inducements to the slothful, 
in the shape of palliatives, which ultimately increase the " miseries of human life." Exercise is both 
a prevention and a remedy ; but we must not mistake — diligence is not necessarily exercise. 

Our ordinary pastimes are now almost all within doors ; those of out progenitors in England were 
more in the open air. They danced on the green in the day-time; we, if we dance at all, move 
about in warm rooms at night ; and then there are the " late hours," the " making a toil of pleasure," 
the lying in bed late the next morning, the incipacity to perform duties in consequence of "recrea- 
tion !" The difference to health is immense — tire difference to morals is not less. If reflection be 
troublesome, read the proceedings in courts of justice and then reflect. We have much to unlearn. 

The above Engraving is an accurate representation of 



An institution which has met with decided eircomagement, and which, we are happy to add, de- 
serves it. Mr. B. has introduced many improvements upon former plans, in regard to his machinery, 
regulations, and exercises. Some general idea of these latter may be gained from an inspection 
of the engraving. In our next number, we will enter into minute details respecting this aird similar 
institutions — giving an entire code of "Instructions for Gymnasis." It would be a source of great 
pleasure to us if we could be the means, in any degree, of exciting interest upon a subject which, 
however frivolous it may appear, is yet one of so much real importance. 


The Waverly Novels, with the Author's last Corrections and Additions ; complete in Five Volumes' 

Carey and Hart, Philadelphia. 

We had occasion to notice the enterprise of the above booksellers in our remarks upon the splendid 
volume of Scott's works, devoted to his poetry, which issued from their press a few months past ; 
in one book, scarcely more ponderous than the original edition of the Lay of the Last Minstrel, the 
whole of Sir Walter's poetry is gathered together, including various minor pieces never before pub- 
lished. We have now a continuation of the same glorious edition — the entire " Waverly Novels" 
are presented in Five Octavo Volumes ; the author's last corrections and additions are included ; and 
his valuable notes grace the text matter in appropriate relation. The type is clear and sufficiently 
bold to render its perusal an easy task ; the papei is of the same consistency and whiteness that won 
our admiration in the volume of poetry ; and a well-engraved Steel Likeness, from the original pic- 
ture by Newton, in the possession of Murray the bookseller, gives additional value to the work. We 
have no hesitation in saying that Carey and Hart's edition of Sir Walter Scott's works is the best 
library and family edition ever printed, either in England or America. 

Fanny, and other Poems. One Volume. Harper and Brothers, New York. 

Mr. Halleck's muse but seldom condescends to flap her wings in the Parnassian atmosphere ; the 
publishers, therefore, with due consideration of the wants of the devotees of Apollo, kindly furnish 
us with a repetition of the former flutterings of her graceful pinions. We should rejoice to welcome 
a novelty from the pen of Halleck ; there are so few real poets now extant, that we cannot allow one 
of the highest of the craft to waste his days "in ease inglorious," without a word of reproach — and 
this new edition of our favorite " Fanny" is a mouthful of sweets that makes us wish for a larger 

A Reply to the Critics. By Samuel F. Glenn. Washington, 1839. 

This boy will be the death of us ! Here is another " little pamphlet," printed at the sole expense of 
the " littery" Sammy, and devoted to our positive extermination from the list of periodicals. Why, 
dear Sammy, will you persist in spending your hard earnings to prove yourself an ass 1 Be assured 
that you are already sufficiently ridiculous in the eyes of those to whom you gratuitously forward 
youi productions ; and if your respectable maternal parent neglected sending you to a Sunday School 
in your days of bibs and bread and butter, it is notincumbent upon you to exhibit the depth of your 
ignorance to " the world at large !" 

Our readers may not recollect Sammy. We had occasion lately to notice his arrogance in pre- 
suming to address a hterary society and publish Essays on Criticism, when he is not only un- 
acquainted with the syntactical construction of sentences, but literally unable to spell correctly the 
words which he pi esses mto his service. Our critical remarks have engendered Sammy's ire — and, 
lo ! the result — an octave of mendacious ignorance and vituperation, levelled at all critics who have 
had the honesty to ridicule the pretensions of this particular gander of the capitol, this Virgil of Goose 
Creek — and at ourselves primarily and most particularly. 

We are not angry with Sammy, although he lets drive at us " with savage earnestness and 
vengeful play." Sammy insists upon it that he is a great wiiter — that the bad grammar and mis-speUing 
evident in all his productions, are the faults of the various printers employed — nay he even confesses 
that such errors luill be found in his forthcoming work. Sammy once inflicted an hour's talk upon 
our suffering nature, when he uttered more bad language than a mad cockney in a farce. Was the 
printer to blame, then 1 We have a letter written by Sammy's own hand, wherein Priscian's head 
is broken with painful frequency ; and we also possess the manuscript of a poem, by Sammy, wherein 
he pathetically asks a weeping willow why it hangs its head so sorry fully. This is no typographi- 
cal error, for the printer has never yet seen this poem, and we are doubtful if he ever will. 

Sammy F. Glenn reminds us of a certain little Scotch manager whilom of our acquaintance, who 
bores every editor within blarneying distance till he obtains the insertion of a self-written commend- 
ation either of his most unpopular management or of his execrable stage assumptions — performances 
vs'hich the good sense of the American public has nearly driven from the stage. This besotted man 
parades the false notice as a specimen of public opinion ; but if an honest critic ventures to give a 


line of reproof or even to hint a wish of amendment in the parsimonious system of management, the 
conceited bigot raises the cry of persecution, and denounces the editor as a personal foe, or a tool in 
the hands of a clique of enemies. Just so it is with his brother humbug, Sammy Glenn, who practises 
•villanous means of puffing hitherto unknown in the annals of Grub street — but vituperates, in bad 
grammar, the critic who ridicules the Essays and Lectures of a Utleraire who is unable to spell cor- 
rectly a word of three syllables. 

Sammy sends copies of his productions to every editor vi'ithin reach ; if the " notices" are honor- 
able he greedily publishes them as puffs, but if unfavorable, he declares that the work was printed 
for private circulation, and ought not to have been criticised — or that "his poems /ro;« the nature 
of their emission were sacred to criticism." Any one who understands the English language 
would imagine that " sacred to criticism" meant consecrated or devoted to that purpose — but poor 
ignorant Sammy intended to mean just the reverse ! However, the printers can bear the blame. 

Sammy has not attempted to answer any one of our objections to the consummate nonsense fabri- 
cated by him both in his Essay and his Lecture — a lecture which he says was printed at the request 
of the literary society before which it was delivered. Is it possible that there exists a literary society 
so common-place in its material as to allow our stultified Sammy to insult them in a lecture ? did 
they not observe the longitude of the ears beneath his lion's skin 1 were they not awakened to a 
sense of sight by the sound of his asinine bray 1 We say again that Sammy has not attempted to 
answer our objections, but contents himself with accusing us of distorting our quotations, and of 
criticising an extract from Campbell as the writing of Sammy himself. Not so, Sammy ; we took 
your position and its predication, divested of the parenthetical absurdities which confused your mean- 
ing — there was no necessity to give the whole of your rigmarole paragraphs ; and as to the quotation, 
we did not affirm that you wrote it, but said that you had introduced a very tender and beautiful 
sentence in support of your doctrine. This language is very different to accusing you of writing 
any thing emanating from the pen of Campbell. Oh, Sammy, Sammy, where do you expect to 
go when you die 1 

We shall not again notice our friend Sammy's attacks ; we cannot spare room for the paltry sub- 
ject, nor find time for the unprofitable task. If his " little pamphlets," are sent to us, \te shall notice 
them as they deserve ; as we do every other publication placed in our hands. We thank him 
cordially for the trouble he has taken in proving the correctness of our criticisms, and in circulating 
the proofs at his own expense. His " Reply to the Critics" is the best puff of our magazine that we 
could possibly issue, and establishes the honest correctness of our literary opinions beyond the power 
of denial. Sammy's "Introduction"aloiie proves all that we have asserted of his ignorance; it con- 
sists of three lines and a half, yet contains four flagrant violations of propriety. Here it is. 

" I am urged to the following very brief reply by the consideration that the critics in question 
have gained a literary standing of some degree in this country, and have disseminated statements 
which, as I hope to prove herein, are alike obnoxious to liberality and to truth." 

" The critics in question.^' What critics 1 who are they ? No persons have as yet been named, 
nor has \he gravamen of the matter been stated ; the question is not yet before the reader. 

" A literary standing ofsoine degree in this country." A phrase most Glennish and obscure. Of 
what degree 1 as big as all out doors, or as small as a lump of chalk 1 

"As I hope to prove herein." In where 1 in the introduction consisting of three lines and a half, 
or in " the following brief reply 1" 

" Obnoxious to liberality and truth." Sammy, we confess the soft impeachment — we are obnoxious 
to liberality and truth. Borrow a dictionary, man, and find the meaning of the word. Why do you 
venture upon a four-syllabler without a previous investigation 1 Obnoxious means liable, or subject, 
or exposed to anything — not opposed or inimical, as we imagine you intended to say. Sammy, you 
must save up half a dollar, and purchase a dictionary. 

Gentle reader, if three lines and a half contain four distinct misusages of the English language, 
how many are likely to be contained in a '' little pamphlet" of Sammy Glenn's slip-slop 1 

Sammy talks rabidly about the malignancy of our depraved heart ! poor, dear, Sammy ! we bear you 
no ill will. If you dislike our critiques why do you send us your " little pamphlet '?" why do you 
concoct falsities, and publish puffs, of your own fabrication, and write impudent letters? Reflect and 
refrain, or your name will become a bye-word for ignorance and pretension ! If you have any relatives 
of respectabihty, issue another printed circular, and swear that you are not the author of the little 
pamphlet wiitten by one Sammy F. Glenn. For the sake of your future prosperity, we advise you 
in the parental language of the elder Wellei — " Samivel, Samivel, you had better prove a hallibi !" 

A Voice to Youth, Addressed to young Men and young Ladies. By Rev. J. M. Austin. Second 
Edition. Grosh and Hutchifison, Utica. 

This is a truly valuable and well wiitten work. The chapters which compose it were originally 
pubhshed in the " Evangelical Magazine and Gospel Advocate," during the years 1837 and 1838, 

166 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

and met with general approbation from a very large circle of readers. Messieurs Grosli and Hutchin- 
son, for whom it was originally written, were induced by its popularity to re-publish it. The first edi- 
tion (in book form) of 1500 copies, was exhausted in a few monihs — the present has an appendix, 
together with additions and amendments by the author. 

The whole is divided into three parts — A Voice to 3"outh, a Voice to young Men, and a Voice to 
young Ladies. We like every ponion of the work, but would especially recommend the two Chapters 
on " Habits"— as well as those on " Reading" and " Self-Cultivation." 

Historical Sketches of Statesmen luho Jlo wished in the Time of George III, Second Series, By 
Heiiry Lord Brougham, F. R. S,, and Member of the National Institute of France. Two Vo- 
lumes. Lea and Blanchurd, Philadelphia. 

The first series of these Sketches excited a profound attention in all the better classes of readers. 
The epoch depicted, in the character of its leading men, was one of pre-eminent importance, either 
morally or politically considered ; and the man who professed to depict it, was one who had very largely 
influenced both its moral and political condition. All people too had faith in the ability, and nearly 
all in the impartiality of the artist — who did not disappoint the expectations which had been formed. 
Few biographies have better chance of going down to posterity, or of going down with a richer 
freight of authenticity and truth, than these Sketches of the Statesmen of the Time of George HI. 

The Second Series is, to Americans, more fraught with interest than the first. We have here 
mementos of Charles Carroll, of Lafayette, and of Washington — portraits by a master-hand — a hand 
too which would have done its subjects justice had the sky fdlien. We cannot conceive, indeed, 
what some of our daily papers have meant, or intended to mean, by the assertion that Lord Brougham 
has under-rated the talents of our First President. Surely the bitterness of some of their paragraphs 
is an ill repayment of so noble a panegyric as this ! 

" How grateful the relief which the friend of mankind, the lover of virtue, experiences when, turn- 
ing from the contemplation of such a character, his eye rests upon the greatest man of our own or 
any age ; — the only one upon whom an epithet so thoughtlessly lavished b}' men, to foster the crimes 
of their worst enemies, may be innocently and justly bestowed! In Washington we truly behold a 
marvellous contrast to almost every one of the endowments and the vices which we have been con- 
templating ; and which are so well fitted to excite a mingled admiration, and sorrow, and abhorrence. 
With none of that brilliant genius which dazzles ordinary minds; with not even any remarkable 
quicknes-: of apprehension ; with knowledge less than almost all persons in the middle ranks, and 
many well educated of the humbler classes possess ; this eminent person is presented to our observa- 
tion clothed in attributes as modest, as unpretending, as little calculated to strike or to astonish, as if 
he had passed unknown through some secluded region of private life. But he had a judgment sure 
and sound ; a steadiness of mind which never suffered any passion, or even any feeling to ruffle its 
calm ; a strength of understanding which worked rather than forced its way through all obstacles — 
removing or avoiding rather than overleaping them. If profound sagacity, unshaken steadiness of 
purpose, the entire spbjugation of all the passions which carry havoc through ordinary minds, and 
oftentimes lay waste the fairest prospects of greatness — nay, the discipline of those feelings which are 
wont to lull or to seduce genius, and to mar and to cloud over the aspect of virtue herself — ^joined 
with, or rather leading to the most absolute self-denial, the most habitual and exclusive devotion to 
principle — if these things can constitute a great character, without either quickness of apprehension, 
or resources of information, or inventive powers, or any brilliant quality that might dazzle the 
vulgar — then surely Washington was the greatest man that ever lived in this world uninspired by 
Divine wisdom, and unsustained by supernatual virtue." 

The personages included in the two volumes now before us are George IV. (with Sir John Leach 
and others ;) Lord Eldon ; Sir William Scott (Lord Stowell ;) Dr. Lawrence ; Sir Philip Francis; 
Mr. Home Tooke ; Lord Castlereagh ; Lord Liverpool ; Mr. Tierney ; Lord St. Vincent ; Lord Nel- 
son ; Mr. Horner; Lord King; Mr. Ricardo; Mr. Curran; Charles Carroll; Neckar; Madame de 
Stael; the Mirabeau Family; Carnot; Lafayette; Talleyrand; Napoleon ; and Washington. 

Not the least interesting portion of the work is a hint, in the Introduction, that the writer is oc- 
cupied in histories of the reigns of Harry V., and Elizabeth. The literary world will welcome theiu 

Whatever opinion may be entertained of the political or moral honesty of Lord Brougham, few 
men of intellect have been found to question his extraordinary powers of mind; his wide comprehen- 
sion, and strong grasp of thought ; his exceeding energy ; his rude but commendable directness and 
Demosthemic vigor of expression. If he be, indeed, the sly knave his little enemies have painted 
him, it must be admitted that the undeniable qualities we have specified have an odd inaccordance 
with his true character. He must be the most inconsistent human being upon the face of the earth. 


He must have an outward and visible spirit belying the invisible spirit within. He must be like the 
statue in Lucian with its surface of Parian marble, and its interior filled with rags. It appears to us, 
however, that his known deficiencies, as well as his known capacities, aie precisely those of a chival- 
rous heait, not less than of a gigantic understanding. 

Letters of Euza Wilkinson, during the Invasion and Possession of Charleston, S. C, hy the 
British in the Revolutionary War. Arranged from the Original Manuscript by Caroline Gil- 
7nan. Samuel Colman, New York. 

These Letters, twelve in number, and filling about a hundred openly-piinted duodecimo pages, 
handsomely bound, arc occupied in part with minute details of such atrocities on the part of the 
British during their sojourn in Charleston, as the quizzing of Mrs. Wilkinson and the pilfering of 
her shoe-buckles — the remainder being made up of the indignant comments of the lady. It is very 
true, as the preface to this volume assures us, that " few records exist of American women either be- 
fore or during the war of the revolution, and that those peipetuated by history, although honorable, 
particularly to the Southern States, want the charm of personal narration" — but then we are well 
delivered from such charms of personal narration as we find here. The only supposable merit in 
the compilation is that dogged air of truth with which the fair authoress tells the lamentable story of 
her misadventures. We look in vain for the " useful information" about which some of our con- 
temporaries have spoken; unless indeed it is in the passage where we are told that the letter-writer 
" was a yoimg and beautiful widow ; that her hand-writing is clear and feminine ; and that the 
letters were copied by herself into a blank quarto book on which the extravagant sale-price marks 
one of the features of the times." There are other extravagant sale-prices, however, besides that. 
In regard to the talk in the preface, about " gathering relics of past history," and " floating down 
streams of time," v/e should call it all fudge. The whole book is exceedingly silly, and we cannot 
conceive why Miss Caroline Gilman thought the public wanted to read it. As for Mrs. Wilkinson, 
she deserved to lose her shoe-buckles. 

Birds and Flowers, and Other Country Things. By Mary Hoioitt. Weeks, Jordan and Co., 


This a very beautiful little book — regard it as we will. Here we have good paper, good printing, 
good binding, wdl-executed wood-cuts from excellent drawings — and poems by Mary Howitt. We 
presume there are few of our readers who are not well acquainted with the character of the writings 
of this lady — v,'ith that sportive and quaint grace, which keeps dear of the absurd, by never employ- 
ing itself upon subjects of a very exalted nature. It cannot be denied that our sweet poetess. Miss 
Gould, has drawn much of her inspiration from a study of the fair quakeress of whom we speak. 
The two styles are nearly identical — the choice of themes is one and the same thing in both writers. 
They appear to echo and re-echo each other. At the same time we must do Miss Gould the justice 
to say that she has greatly improved upon her model, by a more careful elaboration of materials, re- 
sulting in a polished epigrammatism, not always obscivable in the English poems, and admirably 
well suited to the nature and capacities of her Muse — at least so far as that Muse is shown in a 
proper light. 

In a notice, elsewhere, of the writings of Miss Gould, we spoke at length of the leading traits of 
her general style, and commented upon certain occasional bursts of a far higher order of merit than 
appertained to her ordinary manner — flashings forth of a far brighter fire. It appeared to us, indeed, 
that her usual vein was the result rather of some affectation, than of true impulse — rather of some 
perversion of taste, through eaily prejudice or partiality, persisted in until matured into habit — than 
of the unbiassed promptings of the spirit. We had then never seen a collection of the poems of Miss 
H. Having seen them, we find our suspicions fully confnmed. But Miss G. should not consent 
to be in any degree an imitator — even of what is so well worthy imitation as the delightful poetry 
of Mary Howitt. 

Tales of Shipivrecks and Other Disasters at Sea. By Thomas Bingley, Author of"' Stories about 
Vogs," etc. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston. 

No subject in the world has so deep an interest for youth as that of the perils and disasters of the 
sea ; and Mr. Bingley, who is well known for his abilities in telling stories to young people — not an 

168 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

easy thing to do cleverly — has here succeeded in making a capital volume on the spirit-stirring 
theme. We cannot say that the designs are well drawn — it would be positively against our con- 
science — but perhaps they will answer their purpose. The book, in every other respect, is worthy 
of commendation. 

The American Flower- Garden Companion ,- Adapted to the Northern and Middle States. By Ed- 
■luard Sayers, Landscape and Ornamental Gardener, Second Edition — Revised, with Additions. 
Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston. 

It must be admitted that this is just such a book as the public have been long wanting — a con- 
cise, lucid, practical, sufficiently scientific, and cheap manual of Ornamental Horticulture. We are' 
especially sure that there is not a young lady in the land who will not be eager to thank Mr. Sayers 
for putting her in possession of the work. She will here find a thousand difficulties removed ; a 
thousand capital plans suggested ; a thousand novel hints in regard to mere forms of beauty — to meie 
matters of arrangement and taste — hints evidently emanating from a graceful mind, and not to be 
met with in volumes of higher price, larger dimensions and greater pretence. We speak particularly 
of such things as the physique and morale of the location and position of plants, of the formation 
and situation of rock, of ornamental waters and bridges, and of the planning and management of 
trellisses and arbors. But the volume contains every thing essential to the flower-gardener. It is di- 
vided into four heads — The Arrangement of the Garden and Propagation of Plants; The Culture 
of Plants; The Green-House ; and The Flower-Garden Miscellany. There is, also, a Glossary of 
Botanical Terms, and an Appendix, embracing Descriptive Lists of Annual and Biennial Flowers. 

The American Fruit-Garden Companion. Being a Practical Treatise oti the Propagation and 
Culture of Fruit ; Adapted to the Northern and Middle States. By. E, Sayers, Gardener; 
Author of the American Flower-Garden Companio?!, etc. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston. 

Here the design is to condense into the nrost convenient form, as a work of practical utility, re- 
marks on the culture and management of the different kinds of fruit adapted to the Middle and 
Northern States. In the commencement of the volume several pages have been appropriated to the 
phytology of plants, with a view of familiarizing the inexperienced cultivator with some of the lead- 
ing characteristics of trees. The subject is plainly and clearly handled. In the Nursery Department, 
which naturally follows the phytology, the author has given minute directions in regard to the pro- 
pagation of fruit-trees from seed, and the various methods of grafting, budding, and bringing the tree 
into the proper size and state for the final planting in the garden or orchard. Here he has adhered 
to a system of raising fruit-trees from seed, in preference to the usual method of suckers. He con- 
siders that the young plants rob the parent and impoverish the soil. Mr. Sayers has given through- 
out, the results of a long practice, and no little scientific information. 

The Bride of Fort Edward. Founded o?z an Incident of the Revolution. Samuel Caiman, New 


In looking over the preface of this little book, we fancied that we could perceive in it a certain air 
of thought really profound, disfigured by an attempt at over-profundity — and upon this idea we 
formed our anticipations of the book itself — not being altogether disappointed in the sequel. Our 
opinion, it will therefore be seen, is not fully in accordance with that of the press at large ; so far as 
we have observed their notices. 

The author, in apprising his readers that the " Bride of Foit Edward" is not, properly, a play, 
has drawn a just distinction between the hurried action, the crowded plot and the theatrical elevation, 
which the stage demands of the pure drama; and that merely dialogical/orm, in which he has chosen 
to convey the repose, the thought, and the sentiment of actual life. His particular object, as expressed 
by himself, will be found, upon examination, to justify the manner of his work. The story " is con- 
nected with a well-known crisis in our National History ; nay, it is itself a portion of the historic 
record, and as such, even with many of its most trifling minutiae, is embedded in our earliest recol- 
lections. But it is rather in relation to the abstract truth it embodies — as exhibiting a law in the re- 
lation of the human mind to its invisible protector — the apparent sacrifice of the individual, in the 
grand movements for the race — it is in this light rather than as an historical exhibition" — that he 
claims for it the attention of the public. 

This design is an excellent one, and is by no means badly executed ; except in the point of being 


overdone — of being too obviously insisted upon, throughout — and of being carried to a tianscendental 
extreme. We would be quite safe in saying that the writer is a passionate admirer of Coleridge — 
a man whose Jacob Behraen-ism makes, perhaps, as near an approach to the sublime of truth, as 
can possibly be made by utter unintelligibility and fustian. In all modifications of such minds as 
his, we are to look for more or less of a high spirit of poesy ; and, feeling this, we were not disap- 
pointed in meeting with this spirit in the volume before us. Here is imagination of no common order. 

Yet oftenest of that homeward path I think 
Amid the deepening twilight slowly trod ; 
And I can hear the click of that old gate 
As once again, amid the chirping yard, 
I see the summer rooms open and dark. 
And on the shady step the sister stand, 
Her merry welcome in a mock reproach 
Of Love's long childhood breathing. 

I could think this was peace — so calmly there 
Tlie afternoon amid the valley sleeps. 

How calm the night moves on ; and yet 

In the dark morroiv that behind those hills 

Lies sleeping now, who knows what horror lurks ? 

Yon mighty hunter in his silver vest, 
That o'er those azure fields walks nightly now, 
In his bright girdle wears the self-same gems 
That on the watchers of old Babylon 
Shone once, and to the soldier on her walls 
Marked the swift hour, as they do now to me. 

Having said thus much, however, we would not be misunderstood. Nothing less than a long 
apprenticeship to letters will give the author of the " Bride of Fort Edward" even a chance to be re- 
membered or considered. His work, if we view it in its minor points, is radically deficient in all the 
ordinary and indispensable proprieties of literature. Generally speaking, it cannot be denied that his 
verse is any thing but verse, and that his prose stands sadly in need of a straight-jacket. 

Charles Hartland, the Village Missionary. Revised and Prepared iy William A. Alcoit, Author 
of the " House I Live In," etc. Weeks, Jordan and Co., Boston. 

The simple design of this well-written little book is to convey moral and religious instruction, by 
exhibiting to the young, in pictures of every-day life, the excellence of virtue on the one hand, and 
the miseries of vice on the other. We are told, moreover, in the preface, that an attempt is made at 
showing " the importance and necessity of possessing the true missionary spirit, in all the ordinary 
concerns and relations of domestic life ; and, above all, in the discharge of the responsible duties of 
a teacher." The narrative has the undoubted merit of being true. 

Solomon Seesaw. By J. P. Robertson, Senior Author of Letters on Paraguay. Lea and Blan- 

chard, Philadelphia. 

In spite of many assertions to the contrary, we have no hesitation in calling Solomon Seesaw a 
very lively, a very well-written, and altogether a very readable book. The outcry against it has no 
doubt been made by those who would not look into its pages on account of an exceedingly ill-founded 
yet customary prejudice — we allude to the prevalent idea thut a writer who succeeds in matters-of- 
fact, can by no possibility succeed in matters of fiction. This opinion is not nearly so tenable as its 
converse — yet this converse is seldom insisted upon. The truth is, that a really good writer in any 
one department of literature, properly so called, will not be found to fail, essentially, in any one other 
to which he turns his attention, or in which he can be made to feel a sufficient interest. The 
popular voice, to be sure, has decided otherwise; but then, as the philosophical Chamfort well 
says — II y a a parier que toute idee publique, toute coiivention recue, est une sottise ,• car elk a ete 
convenue au plus grand nombre. 

Solomon Seesaw, without making outrageous pretensions, is a very entertaining personage. There 

170 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

is a great deal of vivacity about him, and much of a hearty, up-and-down and straight-forward 
Roderick-Random kind of incident and humor. The book is a very good book to take up in a rainy 
day. Mr, Robertson is not by any means an ordinary writer. The Introductory Chapter to this 
■work is especially well-written. Here is an Extract which will speak for itself. 

" Just so your move-about litterateur ; and especially your foreign one. Let us suppose him to be 
in Glasgow ; he hurries over breakfast, as fast as the bagman ; like him, he looks at his watch every 
five minutes ; he rings again and again for his tardily-brought toast and mufHns ; he scolds Boots 
for being so long with his boots; and he grudges himself the half hour required by the claims of ap- 
petite to allay the cravings of nature. 

He brushes his coat and hat in a hurry ; and out he sallies, with Boots junior as his companion 
and guide, to see the city of Glasgow ; to remark upon its traffic, edifices, institutions, inhabitants, 
and upon the enormous strides which scientific industry is making in her multifarious walks. All 
these important points are jotted down in a journal, which, being revised and corrected, is, at a sub- 
sequent period, to be reluctantly given to the press. 

Suppose your traveller to be a Frenchman, come across the Channel on a two months' tour, with 
a small stock of English got up for the occasion, and alarmed at every moment that passes without 
a jot in his memorandum book. 

He thus initiates his parley with Boots junior. 

Frenchman : — " Monsieur Boots, quelle rue — what street is dis 1" 

Boots: — " The Gorbals, sir." 

FiiENCHMA^jf : — " De Gobbels ; qu'est que ea, wat is dat 1" 

Boots : — " I dinna ken, sir." 

Frenchmak : — " Bete, stupid; no know do meaning of de street: remarquezca; il ne sait, 
peutetre, pourquoi on I'apelle " Boots." Monsieur Boots : vy dey call you " Boots ?" 

Boots: — " Becuz a clean the boots, and gang messages." 

FnENCHMAN : — " Ah, well ; he more adroit than I did not believe" (taking out his Glasgow guide.) 
" Were do University, Monsieur Boots ]" 

Boots : — " University, sir 1 — I dinna ken what you mean." 

Frenchjian : — " Bete : Ecossais: Ce gens-la sent vraiment stupides. L'Universite, jc dis ; were 
de young gens taught to read Greek." 

Boots : — " Oo the College, ye mean V 

Frenchmajt : — "Yes, yes, de College; go dere." 

Boots Cto himself: — " I fancy this man's a scholar ; bit, gif he is, he speaks a queer langidge„" 

Frenchman: — " Wat dat you say 1" 

Boots : — "Naething, sir. Here's the College." 

French^ian : — " Go in, done, and tell the professeur that one foreign gentleman wish to see de 
College of Glazcow." 

Boots freiurning-.J — "The maister says that he canna' be fashed the noo; for he's hearing his 

Frenchman: — " Voyez que ce sont des Betes que ces Ecossais-la." 

Boots : — " He says, gif yc'll come the morn's mornin' at nine o'clock, ye can see'd." 

Frenchman : — " I vill not come to-morrow ; to-morrow I go to Edinburg (remarquez.) Ce 
college n'a rien de respectable, pas meme son exterieur. On dit que les Ecossais ne comprendent 
pas le Grec. Aliens, Monsieur Boots, a la Bourse, we go Shange." 

Boots : — " 'Deed, sir, I think ye hae muckle need o't; for it's a wat day ; an' ye've come out 
without an umbrella." 

Frenchman : — " Wat de brute say ? Pitoyable de moi ; voyageur malheureux I Sirrah, sir Boots : 
I want see de Shange, where de people shange money, and read de papers, and shell sugar." 

Boots : — " Oo ! that's the Exchinge, may be, ye mean 1" 

Frenchman : — " Yes — yes — de Ekshynge ; diable cette langue Anglaise. Chacun a sa fagon 
de parler, et de prononcer ; le Dictionnaire dit, Ekshange ; Boots dit, Ekschynge." 

Undine .• A Miniature Romance ; from the Gerinan of Baron de la Motte Fouque. Caiman's 
Library of Romance, Edited by Granville Mellen, Samuel Colman, New York. 

The re-publication of such a work as " Undine," in the very teeth of our anti-iomantic national 
character, is an experiment well adapted to excite interest, and in the crisis caused by this experi- 
ment — for a crisis it is — it becomes the duty of every lover of literature for its own sake and spiritual 
uses, to speak out, and speak boldly, against the untenable prejudices which have so long and so 
unopposedly enthralled us. It becomes, we say, his plain duty to show, with what ability he may 
possess, the full value and capacity of that species of writing generally, which, as a people, we are 
too prone to discredit. It is incumbent upon him to make head, by all admissible means in his 


power, against that evil genius of mere matter-of-fact, whose grovelling and degrading assumptions 
are so happily set forth in the pert little query of Monsieur Casimir Peiier — "A quoi un poete est-il 
hon ?" The high claims of Undine, and its extensive foreign reputation, render it especially desirable 
that he should make use of a careful analysis of the work itself — not less than of the traits of its 
class — with a view of impressing upon the public mind, at least his individual sense of its most 
exalted and extraordinary character. Feeling thus, we are grieved that our limits, as well as the late 
hour in which we take up the book, will scarcely permit us to speak of it otherwise than at random. 
The story runs very nearly in this manner. 

Sir Huldbrand of Ringstetten, a knight of high descent, young, rich, valorous, and handsome, be- 
comes slightly enamored, at a tournament, of a lady Bertalda, the adopted daughter of a German 
Duke. She, being entreated by the knight for one of her gloves, promises it upon condition of his 
exploring the recesses of a certain haunted foiest. He consents, and is beset with a crowd of illusory 
and fantastic terrors, which, in tlie end, compel him to an extremity of the wood, where a long 
grassy peninsula, of great loveliness, juts out into the bosom of a vast lake. Of this peninsula, the 
sole inhabitants are an old fisherman and his wife, with their adopted daughter. Undine, a beautiful 
and fairy-like creature of eighteen, and of an extravagantly wild and perverse, yet amiable and artless 
temperament. The old couple had rejoiced, some years before, in a child of their own — who play- 
ing, one day, by the water's edge, fell in suddenly, and at once disappeared. In the depth of their 
grief for her loss, they were astonished and delighted, one summer's evening, with the appearance 
in their hut of the little Undine, who was dripping with water, and who could give no very distinct 
account of herself — her language being of a singular nature, and hej discourse turning upon such 
subjects as " golden castles" and " chrystal domes." She had remained with the fisherman and his 
wife ever since, and they had come to look upon her as theii own. 

By these good people Sir Huldbrand is hospitably entertained. In the meantime, a brook, swollen 
by rains, renders the peninsula an island, and thoroughly cuts off his retreat. In the strict intercourse 
which ensues, the young man and maiden become lovers, and are finally wedded by a priest, who is 
opportunely cast away upon the coast. After the marriage, a new character seems to pervade Un- 
dine ; and she at length explains to her husband, (who is alarmed at some hints which she lets 
fall,) the true history of her nature, and of her advent upon the island. 

She is one of the race of water-spirits — a race who differ, personally, from mankind, only in a greater 
beauty, and in the circumstance of possessing no soul. The words of Undine, here divulging her 
secret to Huldbrand, will speak as briefly as we could do, and far more eloquently — " Both we, and 
the beings I have mentioned as inhabiting the other elements, vanish into air at death, and go out of 
existence, spirit and body, so that no vestige of us remains ; and when you hereafter awake to a purer 
state of being, we shall remain where sand, and sparks, and wind and waves remain. We of course 
have no souls. The element moves us, and, again, is obedient to our will, while we live, though it 
scatters us like dust when we die ; and as we have nothing to trouble us, we are as merry as nightin- 
gales, little gold-fishes, and other pretty children of nature. But all beings aspire to rise in the scale 
of existence higher than they are. It was therefore the wish of my father, who is a powerful water- 
prince in the Mediterranean Sea, that his only daughter should become possessed of a soul ; although 
she should have to endure many of the sufferings of those who share that gift. Now the race to 
which I belong have no other means of obtaining a soul, than by forming, with air individual ofyour 
own, the most intimate union of love." 

Undine has an uncle, Kuhleborn, who is the spirit of a brook, the brook which had cut off the re- 
treat of the knight. It was this uncle who had stolen the fisherman's daughter ; who had brought 
Undine to the island, and who had, by machination in the haunted forest, forced Huldbrand upon 
the peninsula. The wedding having been accomplished, the brook is dried up; and the married pair, 
attended by the priest, make their way to the city where the tournament had been held, and where 
Bertalda and her friends were much alarmed at the long absence of the knight. This lady, who had 
loved him, and who is, in fact, the lost daughter of the fisherman (having been carried safely to a 
distant shore by Kuhleborn, and found and adopted by a Duke) this lady is sadly grieved at the 
marriage of the knight, but feels an unaccountable prepossessiorr in favor of the bride, becomes her 
most intimate friend, and at length goes to live with her at the castle of Ringstetten — much in op- 
position to the wishes of the priest and of Kuhleborn. The disasters of the drama now commence. 
Huldbrand insensibly forgets his love for Undine, and recalls his passion for Bertalda. He is even 
petulant to his bride ; who is aware of all, but utters no reproach. She entreats him, however, to be 
careful not to reproach her when they are crossing a brook, or in any excursion upon the water ; as, 
in such case, her friends the water-spirits, who resent his behaviour, would have power to bear her 
away entirely, and for ever. In a passage down the Danube, however, with Undine and Bertalda, 
he'forgets the caution, and upon a trifling occasion bitterly reproves his gentle bride — for whom he 
still feels a lingering affection. She is thus forced to leave him, and melts into the waters of the 

Huldbrand returns with Bertalda to castle Ringstetten. His grief, at first violent, settles down at 
length into a tender melancholy, and finally is merged, although not altogether, in a growing passion 
for the fisherman's daughter. He sends for the priest ; who obeys the summons in haste, but re- 


burton's gentleman's magazine. 

fuses to perform the marriage ceremony. He represents that lor many nights previous, Undine had 
appeared to him in a dream, imploring him with deep sighs, and saying — " Ah prevent him, dear 
father ! I am still living ! Ah ! save his life ! Ah ! save his soul !" Huldbrand, however, rejects 
the advice of the priest, and sends to a neighboring monastery for a monk, who promises to do his 
bidding in a few days. 

Meantime, the knight is borne, in a dieam, as if on swans' wings, to a certain spot in the Medi- 
terranean Sea. Here he is held hovering over the water, which becomes perfectly transparent. He 
sees Undine weeping bitterly and in conversation with Kuhleborn. This conversation gives Huld- 
brand to know that Undine still lives, and still retains her soul, although separated for ever from her 
husband — and that, if he should again mairy, it will be her fate and her duty to cause his death, in 
obedience to a law of the water-spit its. Kuhleborn is insisting upon this necessity. He tells Un- 
dine that the knight is about to wed — and reminds her of what she must do. 

" I have not the power," returned Undine with a smile. " Do you not remember 1 I have sealed 
up the fountain securely, not only against mjself, but all of the same race." [This is a fountain in 
the court-yard of Castle Ringstetten, which Undine had caused to be covered up, while she lived 
upon earth, on account of its affording Kuhleborn and other water-spirits who were ill disposed to 
the knight, the means of access to the castle.] 

" Still, should he leave his castle," said Kuhleborn, " or should he once allow the fountain to be 
uncovered, what then 1 for doubtless he thinks there is no great murder in such trifles 1" 

" For that very reason," said Undine, still smiling amid her tears, " for that very reason he is this 
moment hovering in spiiit over the Mediterranean Sea, and dreaming of this voice of warning which 
our conversation affords him. It is for this that I have been studious in disposing the whole vision." 

Notwithstanding all this, however, Huldbrand weds Bertalda. She in the gaiety of her spirit, upon 
the night of the wedding, causes the fountain to be uncovered without the knowledge of the knight, 
•who has never revealed his dream to her. She does this, partly on account of a fancied virtue in the 
water, and partly through an arrogant pleasure in undoing what the first wife had commanded to 
be done. Undine immediately ascends and accomplishes the destruction of the knight. 

This is an exceedingly meagre outline of the leading events of the story ; which, although brief, 
is crowded with incident. Beneath all, there runs a mystic or under-current of meaning, of the 
simplest and most easily intelligible, yet of the most richly philosophical character. From internal 
evidence afforded by the book itself, we gather that the author has deeply suffered from the ills of an 
ill-assorted marriage — and to the bitter reflections induced by these ills, we owe the conception and 
peculiar execution of " Undine." 

In the contrast between the artless, thoughtless, and careless character of Undine before possessing 
a soul, and her serious, enwrapped, and anxious, yet happy condition after possessing it — a condition 
which, with all its multiform cares and disquietudes, she still feels to be preferable to her original 
fate — M. Fouque has beautifully painted the difference between the heart unused to love, and the 
heart which has received its inspiration. 

The jealousies which follow the maniage, arising from the conduct of Bertalda, are the natural 
troubles of love — ^but the persecutions of Kuhleborn and the othei water-spirits, who take umbrage at 
Huldbrand's treatment of his wife, are meant to picture certain difficulties from the interference of 
relations in conjugal matters — difficulties which the author has himself experienced. The warning 
of Undine to Huldbrand — " reproach me not upon the waters, or we part for ever" — is meant to em- 
body the truth that quarrels between man and wife, are seldom or never irremediable unless when 
taking place in the presence of third parties. The second wedding of the knight, with his gradual 
forgetfulness of Undine and Undine's intense giief beneath the waters — are dwelt upon so patheti- 
cally and so passionately^ — that there can be no doubt of the personal opinions of the author on the 
subject of such marriages — no doubt of his deep personal interest in the question. How thrillingly 
are these few and simple words made to convey his belief that the Tnere death of a beloved wife does 
not imply a final separation so complete as to justify an union with another — " The fisherman had 
loved Undine with exceeding tenderness, and it was a doubtful conclusion to his mind, that the 
mere disappearance of his beloved child could be properly viewed as her death !" This is where the 
old man is endeavoring to dissuade the knight from wedding Bertalda. 

We have no hesitation in saying that this portion of the design of the romance — the portion 
•which conveys an under-current of meaning — does not afford the fairest field to the romanticist — 
does not appertain to the higher regions of ideality. Although, in this case, the plan is essentially 
distinct from Allegory, yet it has too close an affinity to that most indefensible species of writing — 
a species whose gross demerits we cannot now pause to examine. That M. Fouque was well aware 
of the disadvantage under which he labored — that he well knew the field he traversed not to be the 
fairest — and that a personal object alone induced him to choose it — we cannot and shall not doubt. 
For the hand of the master is visible in every line of his beautiful fable. " Undine" is a model of 
models, in regard to the high artistical talent which it evinces. We could write volumes in a detail- 
ed commentary upon its various beauties in this respect. Its unity is absolute — its keeping un- 
broken. Yet every minute point of the picture fills and satisfies the eye. Every thing is attended 
to, and nothing is out of time or out of place. 


We say that some private arid perso;ial design to be fulfilled has thrown M. Fouque upon that 
objectionable under-current of meaning whicii he has so elaborately managed. Yet his high genius 
has nearly succeeded in turning the blemish into a beauty. At all events he has succeeded, in spite 
of a radical defect, in producing what we advisedly consider the finest romance in existence. W^e 
say this with a bitter kind of half-consciousness that only a very few will fully agree with us — yet 
these few are oar all in such matters. They will stand by us in a just opinion. 

Were we to pick outpoints for admiration in Undine, we should pick out the gieater'portion of 
the story. We cannot say whether the novelty of its conception, or the loftiness of its ideality, or its 
intense pathos, or its rigorous simplicity, or that high artistical talent with which all are combined, 
is the parliculai to be chiefly admired. Addressing those who have read the book, we may call at- 
tention to the delicacy and grace of transition from subject to subject — a point which never f^ls to 
tests the power of the writer — as, for example, at page 128, when, for the purposes of the story, it 
becomes necessary that the knight, with Undine and Bertalda, shall proceed down the Danube. An 
ordinary novelist would have here tormented both himself and his readers, in his search for a suffi- 
cient motive for the voyage. But, in connexion with a fable such as Undine, how all-sufficient 
seems the simple motive assigned by Fouque ! — "In this grateful union of friendship and aifection 
winter came and passed away ; and spring, with its foliage of tender green, and its heaven of softest 
blue, succeeded to gladden the hearts of the three inmates of the castle. The season was in harmony 
with their minds, and their minds imparted their own hues to the season. What wonder, then, that 
its storks mid swallows inspired them also with a disposition to travel!" 

Again, we might dwell upon the exquisite management of imagination, vihiclx is so visible in the 
passages where the brooks are water-spirits, and the water-spirits brooks — neither distinctly either. 
What can be more ethereally ideal than the frequent indetermmate glimpses caught of Kuhlebom — 
or than his singular and wild lapses into shower and foaml — or than the evanishing of the white 
wagoner and his white horses into the shrieking and devouring flood "? — or than the gentle melting 
of the passionately-weeping bride into the chrystal waters of the Danube 1 What can be more divine 
than the character of the soul-less Undine 1 — what more august than her transition into the souI« 
possessing wife ] What can be more intensely beautiful than the whole book 1 We calmly think — 
yet cannot help asserting with enthusiasm — that the whole wide range of fictitious literature em- 
braces nothing comparable in loftiness of conception, or in felicity of execution, to those final pas- 
sages of the volume before us which embody the uplifting of the stone from the fount by the order 
of Bertalda, the sorrowful and silent re-advent of Undine, and the rapturous death of Sir Huldbrand 
in the embraces of his spiritual wife. 

Algic Researches ; Comprising Inquiries respecting the Mental Characteristics of the Nmih Ame- 
rican Indians. First Series. Indian Tales and Legends. Two Volumes. By Henry Rowe 
Schoolcraft, Author of a Narrative Journal of Travels to the Sources of the Mississippi ,- Travels 
in the Central Portions of the Mississippi Valley ,- An Expedition to Itasca Lake, etc. Harper 
and Brothers, New York. 

These volumes form the commencement of a singularly interesting and important work — a work 
which has been already too long delayed — and which could not be so well executed, perhaps, by any 
man living as by Mr. Schoolcraft. With a view of aiding in the formation of right opinions in re- 
gard to the origin and mental peculiarities of our aborigines, this gentleman has devoted many years 
and great labor, in discovering and fixing the comprehensive points of their national resemblance, as 
well as the concurring circumstances of their history, and traditions — also in detecting the affinities 
of their languages, and in unveiling the principles of their mythology. He well observes that the 
true period for such inquiry must be limited to the actual existence of the tribes themselves. Many 
of them are already extinct, with the languages they spoke — and one ci the still-existing smaller 
races has lost the use of its vernacular tongue in adopting the English. It is indeed time that tha 
record of facts should be completed by which the aborigines are to be judged. The interest of the 
subject requires no comment. Mr. S. has had the advantage of a long residence in the Indian coun- 
try, and of official intercourse with the tribes. He has obtained new and authentic data ; he has 
found materials for separate observations on the oral tales of the Indians, fictitious and historical; on 
their hieroglyphics, music and poetry ; and on the grammatical structure of their languages, with 
their principles of combination, and the actual condition of their vocabulary. The present work 
embraces the first named topic only — the oral traditions. The other subjects will be hereafter dis- 
cussed. The word " Algic," adopted as a nominative for the series, is derived from " Allcgharry" and 
"Atlantic," and includes, in a generic sense, all that family of tribes who, about the year 1600, were 
found spread out along the Atlantic, between Pamlico Sound and the Gulf of St. Lawrence, extend- 
ing northwest to the Missinipi of Hudson's Bay, and west to the Mississippi — this with some few 
local exceptions. 

The work cannot be too emphatically urged upon public attention. 

174 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

The Thugs or Phansigars of India ,- Comprising a Histm-y of the Rise and Progress of that Ex- 
traordinary Fraternity of Assassins ,- and a Description of the System which it pursues, and 
of the Measwes ivhicli have been adopted by the Supreme Government of India for its Suppres- 
sion. Compiled from Original and Authentic Documents published by Captain W. H. She- 
man, Superintendent of Thug Police, Two Volumes. Carey and Hart, Philadelphia. 

There exists, in India, and lias there existed for nearly two himdred years, a secret fraternity of 
Assassins, called Thugs, and composed of many thousand individuals, united in the bonds of a most 
bloody and singular superstition — a fraternity -which practices the boldest robbery and the most 
atrocious murder as the ordinary means of subsistence — regarding them not as crime but as deeds 
of high merit, especially acceptable in the eyes of its tutelar Deity. The measures of the society have, 
moreover, been concerted and executed with a skill so consummate, that, until lately, all efforts have 
failed at putting it down. It has been long known that such a body actually flourished — but we 
have had hitherto verj' little of definite or accessible information respecting it. These volumes 
fully remedy the evil. They are a compilation from a work published in Calcutta, in 1836, entitled 
" Ramaseana, or a Vocabulary of the peculiar Language used by the Thugs, with an Introduction 
and Appendix, descriptive of the System pursued by that Fraternity, and of the Measures adopted 
by the Supreme Government of India for its Suppression." 

Continuation of the Diary Illustrative of the Times of George IV. Interspersed with Original 
Letters from tJie late Queen Caroline, the Princess Charlotte, and from Various Other Distin- 
guished Persons, Edited by John Gait, Esq. Tivo Volumes. Lea and Blanchard, Philadel- 

The first portion of this Diary was rendered moie notorious, and certainly of more consequence, 
than it would otherwise have been, by a variety of virulent attacks upon its general pretensions, and 
especially upon its credibility, by a legion of British reviewers, among whom Lord Brougham ren- 
dered himself not a little conspicuous. It may be well doubted, however, if any or if all of the Phi- 
lippics by which the book has been assailed, have succeeded in overthrowing it, so far as regards the 
more essential matters of fact of which it takes cognizance. It may even be questioned whether, 
with some reservation. Queen Caroline is not here truly depicted; and we should by no means 
wonder if the work were hereafter gravely referred to as affording the clearest light in respect to her 

Practical Lessons in Floiver Painting, being a Series of Progressive Studies, principally from 
Nature. By James Acherman. Thomas, Cowperthwaite and Co. Philadelphia. 

The progressive exercises in this book are well arranged. We have, first, outlines and shaded 
portions of stems ; then the various tints of green leaves ; then the petals colored in gradation, and 
accompanied with the plainest instructions in regard to the mixing of the colors, etc. — then single 
flowers, with leaves and petals — and, in the last place, entire groups of exquisite loveliness. The 
work is in duplicate — each picture being given colored and uncolored. We heartily recommend it 
to public attention, as decidedly the best elementary book on Flower Painting to be met with in 
America. In saying this we make no exception in favor of imported English publications — for Mr. 
Ackerman's " Lessons" are much superior to the original ones of Andrews in point of delicate 
execution. The latter work was published by Tilt of Cheapside ; and various attempts have been 
made in New York, and elsewhere, to get up a republication; all of which have failed, until this of 
Mr. Ackerman's. Mr. A. no doubt owes his success, in part, to his being the lithographer of his 
own flowers — that is to say, he draws them himself on stone, as well as colors them — the proper fill- 
ing in of the shades in the drawing being an important point. There can be no question, however, 
that as regards meie coloring, also, better work is done at Mr. A.'s rooms (corner of Market and 
Seventh streets) than at any similar establishmest in this countiy. 

Prepared Notices of " Marryatt's Diary," of " Hyperion," of the " Naval Foundling," of " J ack 
Sheppard," and of several other works, are unavoidably crowded out in this number. 





OCTOBER, 1839. 



Illustrating a Mezzotint Engraving on Steel, by Sartain, after a Celebrated Picture by Buss, of 

Mister Richarb Doddicombe is a portly gentleman of some fifty years experience amongst the 
flats and sharps of this chromatic world. He is a bachelor, '' free from all incumbrances, and pos- 
sessed of a genteel independency," as the old gentlemen say when they advertise for wives, A 
phrenologist might express surprise at the extraordinary development of the organs of time and 
tune, in the bumpital region of Mr. Doddicombe's caput, were he unacquainted with the gentleman's 
devotion to the musical science — but the slightest intimacy would convince the scullogist that the- 
organs in question ought to form the chiefest portion of Mr. D.'s cranium — positive mountains 
amongst the ant hills thrown up by the other propensities affecting his brain pan — to be in corres- 
ponding value to the super-eminent afiection displayed in his love towards " a concord of sweet 

When Richard " was a little chubby boy," he one day strolled far from his father's residence, ear- 
led by sounds emanating from a cracked clarinet played upon by a broken-winded Scotchman, who was 
blind of one eye, and remarkably well dimpled with varioloid. The giunts of this Caledonian's 
bagpipe found a ready vibration in the chords of Dickey's heart-strings; he felt the influence of mu- 
sic on his soul, and determined to devote his future life to the study of the gentle science. Return- 
ing home, he stole a sixpence from his father's till, and bought the best imitation of the blind man's 
clarinet procuiable in the neighborhood — a long wooden whistle, with four holes — on which be per* 
severingly practised till something like the ghost of a tune rewarded his laborious exertions. In the 
very outset of his musical career, he drove a maiden aunt from the home of his ancestors by the 
vile squeakings that he daily made; she took offence at his mother's encouragement of her child's 
display, and dying shortly afterwards, left her fortune to a toad-eating nephew — a maker of ladies* 
shoes. This affair proved but " a prologue to a most dreadful tragedy to come." 

Years rolled on ; Dickey obtained a flute, and puffed the beauties of Yankee Doodle and RoMor 
Adair, and perpetrated other easy lessons in two sharps without making more than a dozen flat Esls- 
yei. T. — NO. IV. H 

176 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

takes. When he entered his teens, he obtained a vioUn, and scraped an acquaintance with a band 
of juvenile fiddlers, who harmoniously passed their evenings in discordant squeakings, and killed 
time pleasantly, although they did not know how to beat it. 

Dickey Doddicombe soon longed for stronger food ; " rubbing the hair of the horse against the 
bowels of the cat" was too quiet an exercise for the musical fury raging in his breast. The per- 
formances of a canal boatman, who blowed "Southern breezes" and "Loud roared the dreadful 
thunder" on an old revolutionarj^ trumpet, determined Dickey to go his death on brazen tubes, and 
a small curly instrument was obtained from a charcoal man, who gladly received a hoin of liquor in 
exchange. Dickey soon drove his parents to the verge of madness by the violence of his tootle- 
tooing; arguments were used in vain ; in spite of the excess of his angry mother's tattle, the head- 
strong boy continued to tootle. Old Doddicombe was a quiet man, and his nervous system fell be- 
fore the daily blowing-up of his wife and the constant blowing-out of his son. He took to liquor ; 
he was in a measure compelled to go to the tavern for a little peace, because he was not allowed a 
bar's rest at home. His trade fell off, and this circumstance broke the old gentleman's heart ; so, 
when his business went to the devil, he died directly — for he was a plain unsophisticated tradesman, 
wishing only to follow Ms bw-mess, without any flourish of trumpets. 

Dickey followed his father's body to the grave with an aching heart, for he knew his deficieircy, 
and lamented, as he walked in the funereal throng, that he was unable to play the Dead March in 
Saul upon the horn, as a fitting tribute to the melancholy occasion. 

The musical mania raged with additional violence in Dickey's bosom as he became intimate with 
the science, and was able to relieve the monotony of his solitary solos by bearing a part in the mu- 
sical meetings of his neighbors. His education had been sadly neglected for the attainment of this 
one great end. "What was Gieek in comparison to the gamut ] syntax to a sinfonia 1 philosophy 
to a fugue movement ? Seneca's wisdom to a sonata's workings 1 or the history of Rome to the ex- 
ecution of a rondo "? Nothing. The seven notes were his seven sciences of heavenly construction — 
the diatonic scale formed his Jacob's ladder for heavenly visitation — and the stave was a five-barred 
gate that locked Elysium ; flats, sharps, and naturals, were his every-day acquaintances, and he 
sluried them over, or held on to them, according to their respective value in the scale of his enjoy- 

Mrs. Doddicombe had a desire to be called grandma ; she suggested to Dickey that the name of 
Doddicombe ought to be perpetuated, and hinted at the propriety of wedlock. He confessed that he 
had no objection to a matrimonial duett, and the anxious parent undertook to p; ', ct his partner. — 
Dickey was invited to a musical soiree at the house of Miss Diana Dulcet, w';iu was barely twentj'- 
five years of age, with a hairdsome fortune in her own right. But Dickey affronted her at their first 
meeting ; tbe young lady was proud of her performance on the piano-forte, and loved to show off 
her skill in the presence of her friends. Dickey wished to exhibit his musical knowledge also, and, 
annoyed at the lady's perseverance, rudely told her that she had better leave off, for she was only 
exposing her ignoiance — taking his horn from his pocket, he blew a blast so long and loud and 
dread, that the ladies ran shrieking from the room. Dickey only ceased from his solo at the press- 
ing importunity of the footman, who gave him his hat and pointed to the door. 

Dickey went in for fortissimo passages ; as the Hoosier said on a similar occasion, " he guessed he 
war'nt up to their figger in the skientifics, but he'd swaller his shadder if he couldn't beat 'em on 
the loud." As Dickey progressed in his music, the trumpet and the bugle became favorite instru- 
ments ; and a rattle on the double drum gave a relish to the day's amusement. Then, like Eve, h& 
was seduced by a serpent, and growled most horrible music on the bassoon in perfect ecstacy. His 
mother " never could abide" the serpent; its Freischutzian tones were unearthly in the old lady's 
ears, and seemed to fret her bowels into fiddle strings, and positively turn hei inside out, as the old 
lady declared just before her death, which occurrence was doubtless hastened by the violence of her 

If my readers have ever seen Signer de Big-knees, or Big- nose, I forget whicli is the proper pro- 
nunciation of his name, in the character of a director of an orchestra, dressed in a long morning 
gown, with a cap on his head, made of music paper, with the air of" All round my hat" written on 
it, he can form some idea of the musical fervor which affected my poor friend Doddicombe, as he 
turned the gentle summer of his life, and fell into its autumn path. He quarrelled with his best 
fiiend because he pleasantly denominated a valve trumpet a sojt of a young trombone. He fought 
a duel with a parson, for defending the use of consecutive sevenths. He was taken to jail for jump- 
ing from the boxes of a theatre into the orchestra, and assaulting a drummer who was mamng the 
effect of an overture by his injudicious thumpings. In his serenades, he was peculiarly unfortunate ; 
once, he was taken up by the watchman for refusing to account for the j;ossession of a huge bass 
viol, which he was hauling to the place of his devoirs. Another time, on a summer's midnight, he 
placed himself under the window of an old German, who, unable to sleep from the visitation of count- 
less hosts of midnight vermin, had risen from his bed to indulge in vengeful slaughter. At that mo- 
ment, Dickey tuned his bassoon, and growled foith " Still so gently o'er me stealing;" the German 
thought the appositeness of the tune a premeditated insult ; the window was quietly opened, and a 


bucket of foul water and half a dozeii flower pots were thrown upon the head of the innocent sere- 

Dickey wears a likeness of Paganini round his neck, supported by a single string of catgut — the 
string on which the incompaiable maestro played his solo before the emperor of Germany. Poor 
Doddicombe has been lately prosecuted for slander ; he whispered, with a serious face, the important 
fact that John Smith had better stay at home and study, for he had a faulty method of fingering! 
The whisperee repeated the observation to a third person, with a slight difference, and by next day, 
John Smith was denounced as a pickpocket, on the authority of Mister Richard Doddicombe. 

Dickey's devotion to harmony has sadly reduced his means of life ; he has sold his houses to buy 
horns, and his fields (o pay for fiddles ; his bank notes have been turned into music paper, and sub- 
stantial wealth has vanished in thin air and empty sound. He has been turned out of endless lodg- 
ings for midnight practisings — and committed to countless watch-houses and jails as a nuisance and 
a noisy disturber of the peace — but the love of music cannot be quenched within him, for each suc- 
ceeding opposition serves but to tighten his strings and produce severer tones. 

Dickey felt that he was descending the hill, with grim poverty staring him in his face, which now 
began to assume somewhat of the sere and yellow leaf. He looked around for the means of deliver- 
ance, and cast his eyes upon the peison and purse of an elderly spinster, Miss Timkins, who had 
graciously bestowed her praises upon the peiformances of our hero. He popped the question, and 
was accepted ; the day was fixed — and, as if to crown the glorious event, Dickey was offered a very 
profitable engagement at a series of moi-ning concerts, about to be given by several eminent profes- 
sors, under the most fashionable auspices. On the night preceding the day appointed for his mar- 
riage, Doddicombe passed the evening with his beloved, atrd, after two innocent glasses of weak gill 
and water, returned home to his garret, to dream of future wealth and happiness. But the piece of 
music wherein he most expected to shine at the first concert of the season, met his eye ; he resolved 
to go over it 07ice before he went to bed — the trombone was seized, and the music executed to the 
performer's entire delight. Again and again, the piece was repeated — the hours flew rapidly away — 
the lodgers swore at the infernal noise that prohibited all sleep — and the landlord cursed the musi- 
cianer who paid his rent in such uncuirent notes. The clock had travelled far into the " wee sma' 
hours ayont the twal'," when the landlord, a pains-taking tailor, who plied a weary needle for six- 
teen hours out of the twenty-four — and his consumptive wife, worn out for want of rest by the con- 
tinuous tromboning of our Dickey — and a squalling infant, half delirious from its loss of sleep — 
burst into Doddicombe's room, and found him straining eyes and lungs over the Hailstone Chorus. 
Explanations were useless; he ordered the intruders to quit his room; the tailor waxed valorous, 
backed by the remonstrances of the other lodgers who had gathered round the scene of action — par- 
ticularly a sour old lady who dwelt in the third floor back, and seemed to have a spite agaiirst poor 
Dickey because he was going to be married. 

" For 'evvin's sake, Mister Doddicombe, give over tiumpetising at this 'ere 'our. My other lodg- 
ers is raving. The back garret is swearing awful, and the parlors has broke the bell ropes. My 
blessed babby is screaming like a dear little toad in convulsions, and the methodisses opposite are a 
pouring out all sorts o' brimstone curses on us. You know you driv' away my first floor, and the 
third floor back says that it was you as killed the second floor front — the nervous old lady as died 
last week for want o' sleep. Do leave your blowing ; there's a dead baker now in the next house, 
and how would you like, if you was stiff and silent, to be disturbed jest afore your herring by them 
blowed horns." 

Dickej' insisted upon his right to play when and where he pleased ; the tailor gave him warning 
to quit ; Dickey called him a ninth part of humanity, and played in derision the air of " Go to the 
devil and shake yourself." The old maid opened the street door, and let in the watchman — Dickey 
knocked him down wit'i his trombone, and was eventually dragged to the watch-house by the united 
force of fifteen watchmen, the tailor, the tailor's wife, and the old maid. The officer of the watch, 
infuriated at Dickey's repeated offences, locked him up for the balance of the night. In the morn- 
ing, he was fined for the assault, and in default of payment, for Dickey was bare of the needful, 
committed to jail for a month. 

The marriage was of course broken off. His intended declined a connection with a jail bird ; and 
the concerts took place without Dickey's assistance. The poor fellow is now suffering the pangs of 
poverty and misery ; he occasionally earns a few dollars by his musical abilities ; but his deficiency 
in the scientific principles of the art prevents him from holding a lucrative or respectable situation. 
He has run through a whole gamut of garrets in his residential career, and though living in alt, de- 
clares that he never expected to descend so low in the scale of human existence. 



There is a siunmit of the White Hills in New Hampshire, whicli tlie native Indians deemed it sacrilege to ascend, 
where the great spirit, as they imagined, did abide, and before whom it would be death for any one of His people to in- 

tYyi&ii.~lVinthrop''s Journal, 

Oj!f , red man, on ! to where yon pines 

Their giant forms uprear ! 
On ! to the airy mountain height ! 

What ! quakes thy heart with fear ? 
Thou — whose bright eye hath looked on death, 

Whose proud Hp curled in scorn. 
While, 'midst thy pale-faced foes, in chains 

And mockery, thou wast borne ! 

In mockery thou wast borne ! and yet 

Thy firm heart beat as free 
As when, upon thy native hills, 

It throbbed with liberty ! 
And now thine eye is powerless. 

Thine arm is as the dead ; 
Thy face, on yonder summit fixed^ 

Is blanched, as if with dread ! 

'Tis blanched, as if with dread ! oh say 

Can that heart ever fail ] 
It feared not man, and shall it faint. 

When Fancy's doubts assail 1 
On, red man, on ! our way lies on^ 

Where yonder craggy height 
Hangs o'er the torrents rocky bed. 

Dark as the womb of night ! 

Dark as the womb of night, and deep. 

And rapid is its tide ; 
And down its rushing bosom's sweep 

The sUmy adders glide. 
And only when the lightning's flash 

Darts o'er that dismal stream, 
Shines there upon its cheerless breast. 

One solitary gleam ! 

One solitary gleam ! aye, see 

Yon rising murky cloud ! 
And hark ! how echoes through the rocks 

The thunder pealing loud ! 
Mark, how upon that dreary lake 

Reflects the meteor flash, 
While, swollen with sudden torrents now, 

Its raging waters dash ! 

Its 1 aging waters dash ! yet on 

To where the sheltering cave. 
On yonder mountain's summit opes 

A home, while tempests rave ! 
Haste thither, then ! yet even now, 

The glorious sun once more 
Is fringing that dark cloud with gold ! 

Almost the storm is o'er ! 

Almost the storm is o'er — and see 

Where, in the distant east, 
The rainbow flings its changing arch ; — 

And now, the rain hath ceased ! 
Yet thy fierce eye regards it not. 

Unmindful is thine ear. 
What chains thee, led man ! to that spot 1 

Say! wherefore dost thou fearl 

Wherefore do I fear ? ask'st thou? — 

On yonder frowning height 
Is throned the Spirit, before whom 

The red man veils his sight ! 
And ne'er upon that sacred rock 

May I piesume to stand ! 
For, stranger ! Heaven's avenging bolts 

Are wielded by His hand ! 

They're wielded by His hand ! he sits 

In lofty grandeur where 
The thunder-clouds like chariots roll. 

And swift-winged lightnings glare : 
And woe befal the heart and hand 

Which that dread presence brave ! 
No, stranger, no ! tempt not His wrath ! 

That lake were else thy grave ! 

That lake were sure thy grave, if thou 

Should'st madly dare His power ! 
Then turn, nor prove the might of Him 

Whose frowns around us lower ! — 
Turn, red man, if you will ! my course 

Is o'er yon craggy height ; 
There, where the lake rolls sullenly, 

Dark as the womb of night ! 




Your glorious standard launch again, 
To meet another foe \—Camp. 


First. — SpoILI^;G a Cruise, or the Capture of the Gtterriere. 

" Fire ! in the main-top, 
Fire ! in the bow, 
Fire ! on the gun-deck, 
Fire ! down below." 

Once more in motion upon her favorite element — i, e, salt water — and under the command of her 
former commander, the gallant Hull — Old Ironsides, on the second of August, 1812, bade goodnight 
to the high lands of Massachusetts bay, and proceeded on a cruize. Hugging the land of her birth, 
she stood to the northward until the Bay of Fundy spread out its ample bosom to receive her; but 
finding nothing there to cope with, she stood boldly out to the eastward, and waved her striped bunt- 
ing along the shores of the Isle of Sables, and before the mouth of the St. Lawrence. Having burnt 
two insignificant prizes there, she continued on her course, and on the morning of the 15th, made 
five sail, one of which was a sloop of war. 

" Crack on sail, sir," said captain Hull to the first lieutenant, as he stood on the windward horse- 
block, scanning the stranger with his glass. 

, „ " Aye, aye, sir !" replied the gallant Morris, and soon the old ship spread out her fair-weather sails 
to the favorable wind, and bowled along in chase. 

" She has set one of her prizes on fire !" said captain Hull, stamping his foot on the horseblock. 

" Then she will have the less prize money, and be d d to her !" said the old signal quarter 

master, in a gruff" tone, to the signal midshipman, as he took another squint at his Britannic majes- 
ty's cruizer. 

" I say. Jack," said a tall Marbleheader, as he leaned over the head rail, " that fellow would make 
a good whaleman, if you could only get his lubberly topmasts _y?rf(Zerf, and tip his old iron overboard. 
A lick of coal tar wouldn't hurt his bends, and a bright streak might add a little to his appearance 
on a Sunday morning !" 

" Silence, forward !" thundered the first lieutenant. " Master's mate of the forecastle, this is a 
ship of war, sir." 

" Down with you, forward !" said the master's mate, jumping down as though he had put his foot 
in a bucket of hot water. " Lie close, you landlubbers, this is no whaleman !" 

" Old Switchell is at it again !"* whispered one of the quarter masters to his neighbor. " I won- 
der why he don't swallow a breaker of molasses, and then hoist in water at his leisure ; that infer- 
nal steward of his has kept his teaspoon agoing since seven bells, and bum me, if it hasn't put me 
in mind of splicing the mainbrace with a real nor'-wester '." 

" I say, John Wilson, let me kiss your monkey, you close-fisted son of a catgut scraper !" said the 

* Captain Hull was at this time a robust man, in full health, and having made a pretty severe at- 
tack upon salt codfish the day previous, he drank a great quantity of molasses and water during the 
day. The sailors, ever ready to notice the most minute peculiarities in their superiors, immediately 
named him " Old Switchell," and by this name he is known to the old men of war's men, to this 

180 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

captain of the head, to an old tar who generally kept a wee drop in his locker, for sore eyes and the 
rheumatiz, as he often termed it. 

" You be blasted !" replied the indignant Mr. Wilson. " Kiss the purser's bull,* if you like, or 
take a pull at the halliards with Old Switchell — molasses and water is good enough for a gentleman's 
son !" And a smothered laugh and a fresh plug of pig-tail ended the colloquy. The next moment 
a round shot cut the captain of the head in two, and produced from the aforesaid Mr. Wilson the 
piteous exclamation of — 

" Hello ! No, 1 has stopped his mess ! My eyes ! that was a close shave !" 

The body was immediately hove into the sea, and a bucket or two of water washed all traces of 
the unfortunate captain of the head from the upper world. 

The sloop of war being to windward, the Constitution changed her course, and overhauled an 
English merchantman, already a prize to an American privateer. A brig was next chased to leeward, 
which proved to be an American with a prize crew on board. She was recaptured, and sent in. The 
remainder of the vessels escaped. Having run up as far as his instiuctions permitted him, captain 
Hull came about, and proceeded to the southward ; and on the 19th, at two, P. M. the cry of" Sail 
O !" roused the officers from the mess table, and assembled all hands on the spar deck. The sail 
was soon dimly seen to leeward, bearing E. S. E., but her character could not be discovered. The 
Constitution immediately made sail in chase, and at six bells the stranger was ascertained to be a 
ship. In a short half hour, her rows of teeth were discovered, and no doubt was enteitained of her 
being an enemy's frigate. The Constitution still kept on her course until she was within a league 
of the frigate to leeward, when she began to shorten sail. The enemy had now laid his maintopsaii 
aback, and appeared to be Vi-aiting for the frigate to come down, with every thing ready to engage. 
Perceiving that there was a chance for a fight at last, upon something like even terras, captain Hull 
proceeded to make his preparations vvith the greatest coolness and deUberation. The Constitution, 
therefore, furled her light sails, double-reefed her topsails, hauled up the courses, sent down her royal 
yards, and prepared her decks for action. At the first tap of the drum, the crew came pouring up 
to muster, and ere the drummers had beaten the call, they stood in silence at their guns. At five, 
P. M., the chase hoisted three English ensigns, and opened her fire at long shot, waring several 
times to rake and to avoid a raking in return. The Constitution still came down in death-like si- 
lence, yawing occasionally, to baulk the English commander in his rakish intentions, and heaving 
ahead like her inimitable self alone. At six, the enemy, who seemed to be a very gentlemanly fel- 
low, bore up, and ran off under his three topsails and jib, with the wind on his quarter, which in 
plain English meant, as one of the captains of the guns whispered to the first spunger — " Come 
alongside as quick as you please, and take it yard-arm and yard-arm, and be d d to you !" 

At a little after six, the bows of Old Ironsides began to double on the quarter of the English ship, 
and as she came full upon her, at pistol shot distance, captain Hull, who had stood, trumpet in hand, 
upon the horseblock, waiting for the favorable moment, sprang upon deck and gave the long expect- 
ed order — " Fire ! !" 

At the word, the entire broad-side went off as one gun, and careened the Constitution to her bear- 
ings. It was a broadside of destruction — its shot pierced the enemy through and through, and car- 
ried away his mizzenmast, while captain Hull roared through his trumpet — 

" Well done, my lads, you have made a brig of her !" 

" You have carried away a streak of copper, sir," said an old tar, pointing to an enormous rent in 
the captain's nankin tights with one hand, and touching his hat with the other. 

"Ha!" said Hull, examining his damaged unmentionables, "'tis true thestufl'has given way, but 
never mind, burnt powder will soon color every thing. Give them another royal salute, jny boys." 

For thirty minutes, one incessant roar of artillery filled the ears of the combattants. A vast field 
of white smoke spread upon the face of the waters to leeward, and the hollow waves echoed mourn- 
fully to the thmrder speaking gun. 

The frigate now passed slowly ahead, keeping up an unmitigated fire, and luiTed short around the 
Englishman's bows, to prevent being raked. In performing this manoeuvre, the ship shot into the 
wind, got sternway upon her, and backed on to her antagonist. The cabin of the Constitution now 
caught fire from the close explosion of the forward guns of the enemy. The exertions of lieutenant 
B. V. Hoffman, who commanded that division, however, soon restored order, and the gun of the 
enemy that had caused the injury and threatened to do still greater damage was disabled and silen- 
ced. As the vessels touched, the sound of bugles and the cry of, " First division of boarders, away!" 
issued from the smoke that covered each vessel, and the heavy cannon had an opportunity to cool 

The English mustered at the bows, while the Americans assembled at the taffrail. The musketry 
now was dreadful. Lieutenant Morris was shot through the body, but maintained his post ; the bul- 
let having fortunately missed his vitals. Sailing master Almy was wounded in the shoulder ; and 
lieutenant Bush, the marine officer, having received a bullet in the head, fell upon his face and died 
with the cry of encouragement upon his lips. The English suffered the most, however, by the fire. 

* The purser's bull is the grog barrel. 



It being found impossible for either party to board in the presence of such a fire, and during the 
continuance of the heavy sea, the sails were filled. As the frigate shot ahead, the foremast of the 
enemy fell by the board. 

" Huzza !" said captain Hull, " we have made a sloop of her, my boys !" 

At this moment, down came the mainmast of the Gueniere with a tremendous crash, and she lay 
a helpless wreck, wallowing in the trough of the encrimsoned sea. A cock that had been knocked 
out of his coop by a shot, now fle\iLinto the mizzcn rigging, and crowed like a bantam on his dung- 
hill. It was the cry of victory, and vvas followed by three loud huzzas from the Constitution's crew. 

The conqueror now ran oif a short distance, secured her masts, rove new ligging, and wiped her 
bloody decks. At seven, she wore round, and took a favorable position for raking. The enemy, 
having had suflicient amusement for one afternoon, lowered a jack that had been kept flying on the 
stump of the mizzenmast, and Old Ironsides' victory was complete. 

An ofiicer was now sent on board the prize, who returned immediately and reported her to be His 
Britannic Majesty's ship Guerricre, of thirty-eight guns, captain Dacres. The Constitution, having 
put a prize-master and crew on board, hovered around her during the night. The next morning, the 
prize ofticer having declared the Guerrierc to be in a sinking condition, the prisoners were removed 
and the piize crew recalled. At three, P. M., captain Hull Oidcred the wreck of the beautiful frigate 
to be set on fire, and in a quarter of an hour, a bright flash lit up the heavens — an awful roar rang 
along the billows — a mighty cloud of impenetrable smoke slowly moved along the ocean, and when 
the evening sun looked down upon the clear waters, nothing was to be seen of the noble cruizer but 
black and bubbling fragments dancing upon their waves. 

The Constitution, having her decks lumbered with wounded prisoners, shaped her course for the 
southward ; and on the SOth of August, stood up Boston harbor, with the cross of England trailing 
beneath the stars and the stripes, and anchored off Long wharf amid the ringing of bells, the firing 
of cannon, and the wild huzzas of assembled thousands. 

Such was the battle that told to the astonished world that the lion was no longer the master of 
the ocean. The whole nation was electrified at the result — the old doubters doubted no longer — 
tories hung their heads in shame, and a generous people arose like one man to do honor to the brave 
of their native land. Captain Hull and his oflScers were feasted and toasted — services of plate, and 
freedoms of cities in gold boxes, were showered upon the captors from all quarters — the name of Old 
Ironsides became the watchword of the nation, and a passport to every society ; and while the brave 
tars, from the lofty yards, raised the loud huzza in honor of the victorious Hull, they forgot not to 
add another to the memory of the absent and wounded Morris. 


Br c II A R L E : 

W £ S T T II O II S O X , 

JIaiil ! those bright eyes my hi art impvessiiig, 
Fill iny breast with thoughts distressing. 

Wkeue was thy licart, thou daik-eyed maid- 
Was it not roaming far away, 

When to the crowd thy glances strayed. 
Among the gaudy and the gay 1 

Was it not then thy bosom burned 

For that great world of glare and show, 

From which thy youthful steps had turned, 
The sweets of inward peace to know ! 

Thy simple dress, thy look demure, 
But illy hide the thoughts within, 

Which thro' a mind serene and pure 
Long other joys than these to win. 

Thou art with those that round thee throng, 
With them in dance, with them in prayer ; 

But o'er thee comes a feeling strong, 
That tells thy heart no longer there. 

Why should'st thou shade thy sunny eye — 
V/hy should'st thou hide thy raven hair — 

When other scenes before thee lie, 

Which such as thou were formed to share 1 

O throw aside thy garb again, 

And light with smiles-thy saddened face ; 
Pure as thou art, so pure remain, 

But find a fitter, cheerier place. 
Lebanon Sjjrings, August, 1838. 



[Continued from page 134.] 


■; Tax letter which made Hypolite Royer Collard so happy, was hi tenor as follows : 

Sir — It is veiy bad in me to have read your letter, and worse indeed to answer it. In fact, I con- 
thided not to write to you, and to give your letter to my mother. But I thought this might have a 
aad result, and upon reflection, I preferred sending you this letter, to beg of you not to write to me 
again. You say you love me, sir, yet you have never spoken to me, and cannot know whether I 
•ain one to be loved. Can it be true that one may fall in love at first sight, as my cousin tells me, 
'^ho calls it " a strolie of lightning?" Ny mother's seivant, old Marion, who once lived three years 
in Paris, where she was a mantuamaker, has often told me of a young man, who lost his senses the 
Srst time he saw her. But I never believed that. I also know, sir, — because I have heard it men- 
tioned since my return to Rennes, — that you are a man of talent, and already celebrated. When, 
they said that before me, I could not help blushing, and nevertheless, I confess, it gave me pleasure. 
It is very wrong for mc to write you in this way, for I was going to reproach you, and yet I know 
not why I had not the courage to do it. That which you have written me, has upset all my ideas, 
^iid I have since felt an uneasiness for which I cannot account, for I am not sick. I have told every 
thing to Marion, who ought to know a great deal, for she is very old, and she says that it is love. I 
am sure it is not, and the only reason that I write to you is because Marion thought it bettei to do 
so. She said that I could do no better, because you v/ould be sure to find out where I was, and if 
you loved me truly, as you say, you v/ould be a much better match for me than our neighbors, who 
are all country gentlemen, who talk of nothing but hunting and horses, which is very wearisome to 
a young lady. It is Marion who says this, and she ought to know belter than I do. If then you 
■wish to see me again, you have only to come and pass the winter at Rennes, where I am going to 
•appear for the first time, for I have just come out of the convent. 
! have the honoi to be your humble seivant, 

Elise de Clebig^'t, at the Chateau of Villensa. 

This Jetier appeared to Royer Collard the very sublime of stupidity. He perused it ten times 
•■with scrupulous attention ; he gravely weighed every syllable, and attached less importance to what 
she actually said, than what she meant to say. Beneath the awkward phraseology of a school-girl, 
he thought he perceived a germ of corruption, which he promised himself ere long to fructify. — 
There, wheie another man would have seen nothing but a desperate barrenness of mind, he disco- 
vered a soil, virgin as yet, but where pleasure would ere long reap a gloiious harvest. 

Elise Clebigny, thought the libertine, has a soul which knows not its own powers. Where could 
she find expressions to develope the mysteries of her heart, which as yet are as unknown to herself 
as to others ? The convent has transformed this woman of powerful mind, and formed for pleasure, 
into a fair statue. But let Pygmalion come, the statue will breathe — little by little — this delicious 
-snow shall melt beneath a kiss ! Those hands, accustomed to count devoutly the beads of the rosa- 
ly, will tremble with delight at the touch of anotlier hand. That voice, which thus far has only re- 
peated, morning and evening, the prayers of the Missal, will murmur low words, all confused and 
iningled with ardent sighs ; desire will smooth those rosy lips ; and that superb eye, now calm and 
clear as the blue of heaven, which it seems to reflect, will shoot forth the humid ray of pleasure. 

Perhaps the libeitine was right. If the letter of Elise de Clebigny betrayed in its expressions an 
incredible ignorance of customs and things, yet was it no less the proof of a certain boldness of will. 
In this letter there was innocence, but no modesty. With a marvellous sagacity, peculiar to fi-ee 
livers, Royer Collard perceived immediately that the simplicity of Elise de Clebigny was not that of 
viJftue, but of vice. Vice hath its simplicity, so long as it remains inexperienced. Royer Collard, 


who always undertook what he termed an affair of business, with all the coolness of a speculator, 
satisfactorily explained to himself the cause of such precocious evil, by referring to the combined in- 
fluence of the cousin with heu " strokes of lighiTiing," and the chambermaid, who had been three 
years in a milliner's shop. 

I have already told you that Elise do Clebigny was an admirable creature. " It would be agree- 
able," thought the libertine, " to fashion such a mind, to be its first master, and to receive its firs 
sighs. The lot is cast — I go to Rennes — to-morrow night, I pass the Rubicon." By the Rubicon, 
Royer Collard meant the diligence of Lafitte and Caillard. 

That evening he appeared in the Infernal Box. 

" You perceive," said he, after having read the letter of Elise, " that my affairs are in a good 
train !" 

" And you purpose to go to Rennes 1" inquired Romieu. 

" I shall go to Ki'nnes !" 

" r faith ! the Utile girl is worth the trouble — and if he does not go, I will go !" cried the viscount. 

'• Stop, if you please — this affair belongs to me only !" 

Three days after receiving the letter of Elise, Royer Collard was at Rennes. But in vain he went 
from saloon to saloon, he could never meet with Mademoiselle de Clebigny. All those of whom he 
inquired whether they knew Madame de Clebigny, or the Chateau of Villensa, replied that they had 
never heard tell either of one or the other. ' Strange suspicions began to perplex the libertine. If 
his vanity spake aloud to him, saying that he, Royer Collard, could not have been the sport of a 
young girl, his conscience immediately replied thus to his vanity — "Hypolite Royei Collard has 
gained nought but the expense of the trip." 

One evening, at a ball, Royer Collard was sadly seated in the most obscure corner of the room 
His countenance was overcast. That evening, the libertine had not the victorious and pioud air 
which was habitual to him. He spoke almost in a low voice, and with a tone of modesty altogether 
unusual, so that they said — " What ails the doctor to-night "? Has he lost at ecarte 1 Has he, by 
any impossibility, met with a cruel fair one 1 — or is he engaged in the investigation of some new 
theoxy in medicine 1 No, indeed — he has won a hundred louis from the prefect, and driven to bay, 
they say, the virtue of Madame de Clery — the virtue which they pretended was impregnable — his 
last medical treatment has had astonishing effects. Happy dandy, and still more happy doctor ! He 
destroys without remorse the honor of married men, and cures all the sick !" 

" What is the matter, then 1" 

" Really, I don't know !" 

But Royer Collard paid no attention to the conversation going on around him. He thought but 
little of the prefect, for whom he cared but little, nor of the virtue of Madame de Clery, nor of the 
health of his patients, who, however, were none the worse for it. The libertine was thinking of Ro- 
mieu and the Infernal Box. He discerned in the horizon a storm approaching, which threatened to 
overwhelm him with a deluge of sarcastic wit. 

" Parbleu !" exclaimed he, " I have been fooled, like a mere scholar ! At home it would not have 
been so bad — but a hundred leagues for this ! If Romieu should hear of this I am a dead man — 
nothing to do but turn hermit !" 

As he spoke thus, he heard pronounced near him the name of Madame de Clebigny, He turned 
about quickly. 

'' Sir," said a man of advanced age, to another man superbly dressed in a suit of black, no less 
grave than his countenance — " Sir, Madame de Clebigny requests me to present her compliments — 
she ventures to hope that you will pass a few months of the summer at the Chateau of Villensa." 

" Sir," replied the black dress, " I am grateful for the invitation of Madame de Clebigny, and if 
the important interests with which I am charged permit, I shall avail myself of her kind offer." 

Royer Collard arose. " Gentlemen," said he, approaching them, " I beg pardon for interrupting 
you, but you have just been speaking of Madame de Clebigny, and I am extremely anxious to know 
what causes have deprived us, of the pleasure of seeing her this winter at Rennes." 

" What, sir ! do you not know that she has lost her aunt, the Canoness 1" replied the black dress 
" I am the more chagrined, because her daughter, who is related to me through the Montgiberts, but 
for this melancholy occurrence, would have made her first appearance, this 3^ear, in the fashionable 
w^orld. A charming young lady — do you know her V 

" Yes, sir." 

" A perfect treasure ! — her mother has educated her in the pure principles of our holy religion I 
An angel, sir, who perhaps has not spoken to ten men in the course of her life !" 

" And does she still reside at Villensa V 

" She still lives there, sir." And with this, the black dress bowed, and disappeared with his friend. 

Rover Collard could with difficulty contain bis joy. At the very moment in which he believed 
himself the victim of the most horrible mystification, a happy chance restored to him the light of tri- 
fling in his accustomed manner. The free liver leturned to his house, and passed a part of the night 
in imagining what means would be most successful to obtain an interview with Matlemoiselle de 
Clebigny. After much meditation, he hit upon a plan which appeared to him sublime in every par- 

TOL. T. NO. IT. H 2 

184 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

ticular, and which consisted in compromising his victim in such a manner that, placed between the 
loss of reputation or the loss of her honor, she would be forced to choose pleasure without danger, 
rather than virtue without profit. Having airanged this, he went to sleep with the calm content of 
a robber who had made a good day's work. 

The next day, he arose early, to commence the undertaking — but in this world we must calculate 
upon unforeseen accidents. At the very moment i>n which he was ready to enter upon the cam- 
paign, Hypolite Royer Collard received an urgent letter, which forced him to set out immediately 
for Paris. 


The business which had so unpleasantly deranged Royer Collard in his projects of seduction, w&b 
too important to give place to any foreign occupation. But when it was happily teiminated, Royer 
Collard thought anew of putting an end to his adventure. His vanity, moreover, was incessantly 
mortified by the sarcasms of the Infernals. Whilst he calculated his means of attack, he received 
a new letter, dated at Rennes. This letter astonished Royer Collard, who usually was astonished at 
nothing. Royer Collard well knew that when the germ of corruption falls into a young heart, it 
there grows with frightful rapidity, and quickly chokes every good sentiment. But with Mademoi- 
selle de Clebigny the progress had been miraculous. 

" Oh, Molieie !" exclaimed the rake, after reading twenty times the letter of Elise, " one thing in 
the world is more true than thy Tartuffe ! It is thy Agnes ! Hads't thou read this letter, thou 
vvoulds't have added some more verses to the ' School for Husbands.' " 

In fact, since the first letter of Elise, a remarkable reaction had taken place in the bosom of the 
young girl. The day when the God of Evil entered there, in the form of a letter, the ice was bro- 
ken. Like those little flowers which bud beneath the snow, her heart had flowered (if I may so 
speak) and pierced the thick covering with which a monastic education had enveloped it. A single 
ray shone upon it, and the flower began to blow. 

There were many traces in this letter of inexperience, but she already expressed, in a happy style, 
the first anxieties of a youthful heart, its first terrors, its conflicts, and its desires. 

" Sir," said she, to Royer Collard, " I knew that you had come to Rennes ; that every evening 
you went into society, where all the women admired you — that made me uneasy, and yet I felt hap- 
py. Circumstances, independent of my will, as you have doubtless learned, prevented my meeting 
you. Nevertheless, I could not resist my desire of seeing you. I went to Rennes, I know not now 
under what pretext, and remained three days with one of my relations. In these three days I be- 
held you pass every morning before my wmdow. I wished to show myself, but dared not do it. 
What would you have thought of me ? My heart is already too guilty ! I have already too much 
forgotten my duty !" 

Farther down, she added — " I suffer much, and they say that I am much changed. I am sure 
you would find me less handsome. I weep without any cause. Every thing wearies me ; every thing 
disgusts me. I dare no longer look at my mother, for it seems to me that she must read in my coun- 
tenance that which is passing in my mind. I am surely much to blame !" etc., etc. 

Nevertheless, this letter, in which gi'owing passion began to embolden itself, contained nothing so 
interesting as the postscript — " x\ddress yeur letters to Marion, at the Chateau of Villensa." 

« Adorable Marion ! sublime duenna !" exclaimed Royer Collard. " I will raise an altar to thee, 
covered with five franc pieces!" and immediately he took a pen and began to write. 

Those who have read this letter of Royer Collard, assure me that it is a chef-d'ceuvre of its kind. 
It might be avowed by Valmont himself, the hero of " Liaisons dangereuses," the grand master in 
seduction. Yet this letter, every phrase of which burned and threatened to fire the perfumed page, 
was coQiposed with admirable sang-froid. Whilst directing it, the roue hummed an opera air. Yet 
although his heart was not moved, his vanity most assuredly was. Ehse de Clebigny was beautiful, 
noble, and rich. Her min^l, hardly unfolded a few months previous, was developing itself with mar- 
vellous rapidity — and to himself the miracle was owing ! According to his own expression, he had 
been the Pygmalion to this beautiful statue of marble. The rou6 felt himself agreeably tickled in 
his most sensitive point — his vanity. 

" Upon my word," thought he, " an adorable little creature i I shall love her for six months !" 
The reply was not long waited for. Eifteen days from then, Royer Collard i-eceived another let- 
ter. This time the transformation was complete. It was no longer the letter of a child ; but that 
of a passionate, ardent woman, who found expression for all her feelings. Elise depicted the un- 
known emotions through which her ignorant heart had passed for three months, with such power of 
truth, that Royer (bollard, in spite of himself, gave way to sincere admiration. That evening, he 
lead her letter at Mignet's. 

" But that is no ordinary woman," cried Ditmer. " It is an unpublished chapter of Heloise ! I 
compliment you — your labor has not been thrown away !" 


" Could I meet with such a woman," exclaimed the viscount, " I ehould be foolish enough to fall 
in love !" 

Royer Collaid was radiant with delight. lie swelled himself up, and turned around like a pea- 
cock. Such compliments, in the mouths of such men, accustomed to laugh at every thing, and to 
deny every thing, had, in the eyes of Royer Collard, an inestimable value. They affected his head 
like wine. The rake went out from Mignet's, full of satisfaction and Champagne, drunk with Cham- 
bertin and vanity. 

That evening, he was in the tender vein. In reply to Elise, he indulged in a series of sentimental 
phrases, all besprinkled with points of exclamation, and when he put the direction, his hand tremb- 
led like that of a scholar of rhetoric, or a poet in love. 

If Elise had answered without delay, it is probable that Royer Collard would have resumed his 
accustomed indifference. His vanity would have been sated with triumph ; but Elise answered not. 

Then could you have seen the countenance of the roue gradually darken, and afterwards grow 
pale. Royer Collard suffered in verity — at first through mortified vanity, then from love. From his 
head, his passion descended to his heart. He gave the lie to his past life, and was caught in his 
own snares. He wrote letter after letter, and seduced himself by his own phrases. This was not 
done suddenly, but of course by degrees. 

In proportion as the anxiety of the loue increased, so awaked within him every thing good and 
human in his nature. Royer Collard felt his heart leap as in the first days of his youth; and one 
evening, when alone in his chamber, he reflected sadly on his past life, and demanded of himself the 
meaning of this new illusion, which seemed to flourish on the ruins of all his former ones, he felt 
himself overcome with a mortal discouragement. After a fierce struggle, vanity was conquered by 
nature — Royer Collard wept ! 

Ere long, he forsook all his ancient habits, 

" What ails our friend ]" inquired Romieu, one evening that he beheld him sitting sad and dis- 
consolate in a box in the second tier of the Theatre Francais. " A singular change has been affect- 
ed in him ! I no longer recognize in him the elegant Royer Collard, the idol of tailors, the Jupiter 
Tonans of the fashionable world. His cravat is put on ciooked — the skirt of his coat is antedilu- 
vian — and, God forgive me, but that indefatigable eye-glass, which he formerly aimed incessantly 
from one box to another, now hangs sadly at the end of its chain, like a criminal from the gallows. 
Our friend is unwell. This Elise de Clebigny has cast a spell upon him, most assuredly." 

Three days after this, Royer Collard, on going home, addresses the usual question to his servant — - 
" Any letters from Renncs !" 

" Yes, sir," replies the servant, giving him a letter in the handwriting of Elise, 

Royer Collard trembled with agitation. He raised the letter to his lips, and covered it v/ith kisses ; 
not now, as formeily, with the ironical satisfaction of flattered vanity, but with the ardor of passion. 
A tear — a sincere tear fell upon the paper, and as the valet hardly attempted to conceal a smile. 
Royer Collard kicked him out of the house. 

I regret that want of space compels me to suppress this letter. It was a masterpiece of amorous 
eloquence. Elise explained to Royer Collard the causes of her silence. Never was passion better 
expressed than in this letter. But above all, the conclusion was thrilling. The tremor of love was 
in every line — it w^as delirium ! And Royer Collard could not help crying out — " She has lost her 
senses !" 

He attempted to write — and tore twenty letters, without being able to finish one. At length, he 
determined, in spite of important business, to return to Rennes. 

The evening before the day which he had fixed upon for his departure, he received another letter, 
but the writing was not that of Elise. This writing betrayed a most deplorable ignorance of the 
art. The first lines showed a disposition to crawl down to the signature, whilst the last attempted 
to get up as high as the date. Hence resulted a strange medley, in which none of the words affect- 
ed to retain the straight line recommended in the epistolary code. 

Here follows the letter in its original laconicism, and with all its faults of orthography ; — 

MoN Chaik Mo::?sieur. — Je maits la main a la plume, pour vous apprendre que notre chaire 
demoiselle est bien malade. Cette pauvre petite vous airne tan quele en a perdue la rezon. Ce 
mailheure est haruvee hier aoire. Tout le monde est hici dans la dezolation. Je nai que le tamps 
que de vous ecrir ceci en cachet. Tachez daviser aux moyens qu'il faut prendre et avee lesquel je 
suis votre servante devoue. . Mahion'. 

Pautscriptom — Ne venez pas dici a quelque jour, parcque ga pourrait fere un mailheur, je vous 
ecrirai quand il le fodra. 

As the above letter is incapable of literal translatiorj, we give the substance for the benefit of anti- 
Gallican readers, viz — Marion tells Royer Collard that Elise is very sick, and advises not to come to 
see her until she writes him again. 

On being thus apprised of the folly nf Elise, Royer Collard was on the point of becoming crazy 
himself. He waited for the next letter from Marion witli much anxiety. Three days after, he re- 

186 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

c€fived a letter, but not from Marion. This was from the countess of Clebigny, the mother of Elise. 
Il was a letter worthy (in the beginning at least) of a marchioness of the " ancien regime." 

8be scolded M. Roj'er Collaid sharply, and told him that he had been very daring to aspire to the 
nand of her daughter; he who, after all, was nothing but a "lotuiier," and had no title but talent. 
But the conclusion disagreed materially from the commencement. In writing the last lines the manr- 
chioness gave way to the mother — the style was heart-rending — Madame de Clebigny demanded 
from Eoyer Collard to restore reason t'.) her child — to her little Elise — so young, so fresh, and s& 
besBtiful I 

The letter was not yet finished. One could perceive that the countess had suddenly quitted it to 
run to the bedside of her daughter, but she had again resumed it to add this terrible postscript — 

" My daughter is dead ! Receive a mother's curse !" 

Royer CollaTd, on reading these words, cried out with anguish, and dropped his head between his 
haB^s. For three days he suflcred with a raging fever, and when he was able to raise himself, he 
wrote to Marion as follows : — 

If you can prGcare me a lock of Elise's hair, and I presume the family has preserTcd it, endeavor 
to send it to me, and I will pay you anything you may demand for it. 


He soon received an answer, with a lock of hair and a bracelet, Royer Collard swore that he 
would always wear them. Nevertheless, in covering with ardent kisses the hair of Elise, he per- 
ceived that it was black. Now Elise was a blonde. Royer Collard knew very well that mental de- 
rangement can whiten the hair, but he had never heard tell of its making it black. But as a lover 
never looks very closely, and as, moreover, he had only once seen Elise, he concluded that be w^as 
mistaken, and placed the precious curl near his heart. 

The next day, and for some days after, Royer Collard was seen dressed in deep mourning. Cha- 
grin seemed to have made him ten years older. 


A month had passed by, and Royer Collard had not yet forgotten Elise, when, one morning, a 
stranger requested permission to speak to him. 

"&ir,°' said the stranger, " I come for a serious motive." 

"'« I am all attention, sir." 

« I will speak to the point. I am the count Montgibert, uncle to Mademoiselle de Clebigny." 

" You V exclaimed Royer Collard, recoiling like Macbtth from the ghost of Banquo. " You have 
ao doubt come to overwhelm me with reproaches. I have deserved all ; and cruel as they may be, 
tbej will never be sufficiently so !" 

Speaking thus, Royer Collard bowed his head to receive the maternal malediction, 

" Moments are precious," replied the count Montgibert, " and no time must be lost in useless re- 
proaches. My sister wrote you that her daughter was dead, after a cruel attack of mental derange- 
iient. She has deceived you !" 

" What say youl" exclaimed Royer Collard, with sparkling e}'es. 

" It is true that Mademoiselle de Clebigny is deranged, but she is not dead. Whatever be the 
iBotive which induced the countess to deceive you, it most be respected. But it is now time to speak 
the truth. That which was false yesterday, may be true to-morrow. The physicians of Rennes are 
ananimously of opinion that he who caused the evil can alone repair it. Your presence" 

" I understand you, and I am ready !" 

" I thank you, sir," continued the count Montgibert, pressing the hand of Royer Collard. " This 
may well blot out many wrongs — the future is a great master. When can you set outl" 

^This very moment, if you will." 

-' Well, this evening. I will meet you at the second relay with my carriage." 

That evening, Royer Collard set out again for Rennes. But in vain he inquired at every relay if 
tiiey had seen the count of Montgibert. They told him each time that they knew not what he 
meant. When the carriage stopped, a man stepped up, and inquired whether his name was Royer 

" I am he," replied the rake. 

" Oh, sir, you are anxiously looked for ! Will you follow me 1" 
"I will follow you — is it to the chateau of Villensa V 

" Wo, sir ; it is here that Mademoiselle de Clebigny has been for several days. ' 
The heart of the roue was agitated with indefinable emotions. " I am about to see her," said he 
K> himself, and he trembled with joy and apprehension. 
" There it is," said the guide, knocking at the door of a house of very good appearance. 



An old woman received Royer Collard. 

" I am Marion," whispered she. " You are going to see our dear little Elise — she is very sick!" 

" And her mother ?" 

" They told Iier not to remain — you will see Mademoiselle alone — there is the chamber." 

Royer Collard's legs trembled under him. Finally, he summoned resolution to enter. It was 
night — the mysterious glimmer of a lamp alone gave light to the chamber. The silence of death, 
reigned around Royer Collard, interrupted only by the steady monotonous tick of a clock. Elise 
de Clebigny, clothed in a white robe, reclined upon a sofa. Her long dishevelled hair concealed her 
features. She was motionless as a statue, and but for sighs that occasionally escaped from her, you 
would have thought tliat she was dead. The roue appioached her trembling, and kneeled — and 
when he took the hand of the poor foolish girl, and carried it to his lips, it seemed to him that this 
hand was cold as marble. 

" Elise !" said he, at length, in a low voice. 

'' Who speaks of Elise ?" replied the young girl. '• Why speak of the dead T Elise is dead ! — 
and it is very fortunate, look ye, for she suffered much! Did you know her"? She was sick there 
and there !" added she, putting her hand to her heart and to her head. " Poor Elise ! why do we 
weep for her? It is so good to die ! Ah !" cried she, suddenly, " what is your name V 

" Royer Collard," replied the roue, trembliiig. 

" 'Tis false — thou art not he !" 

" I am he — I am indeed !" exclaimed Royer Collard, weeping, 

" Thou weepest — men weep, then 1" and saying this, her head sank upon the shoulder of Royer 
Collard, and she also wept. After a few moments she looked up ; but Royer Collard could not dis- 
tinguish her features, for it was dark. 

" Yes, it is true, thou art he ! — art thou not he I" 

" Ah, yes ! I am he that loves thee !" murmured the roue, passing bis arm around the waist of 

The young girl escaped from him, and began to lun about the room. 

" Wilt thou dance]" cried she ; '''tis such a pretty thing, dancing! Elise will not dance any 
more — will she 1" and she began to sing in a voice altered by sickness — 

" Now you are tied, 
Madam the bride ! 
With a golden thread, 
Which unties when you're dead !" 

" Wretch that I am !" exclaimed the rake, and he followed Elise, who still ran on singing. The 
lamp suddenly fell. Royer Collard heard the sound of a door opened quickly and immediately shut 
again, and he found himself alone in the darkness. 

Feeling around, he perceived a ray of light, which came through a keyhole. He approached and 
imagined that he heard a whispering. 

At length he opened the door, and found himself in the midst of all his friends of the Infernal 

Box, who received him with an immense shout of laughter. The viscount had played the part of 
Elise de Clebigny. 

Royer Collard had been the victim of a horrible mystification, the chief magazine of which was 
at Brest, with ramifications at Paris and Rennes, 

Since this occurrence, he has written no more love-letters. Hains B . 


I KAT sing ; but minstrel's singing 
Ever ceaseth with his playing. 
I may smile ; but time is bringing 
Thoughts for smiles to wear away in. 
I may view thee, mutely loving; 
But shall view thee so in dying ! 
I may sigh ; but life's removing. 
And with breathing endeth sighing *. 
Be it so ! 

When no song of mine comes near thee, 
Will its memory fail to soften 7 
When no smile of mine can cheer thee, 
Will thy smile be used as often 1 
When my looks the darkness boundeth, 
Will thine own be lighted after 1 
When my sigh no longer soundeth, 
Wilt thou Ust another's laughter 1 

Be it so ! 



Sons of the desert! lise: 

There's a war-cry on the blast ; 
And the flag of the vaunting foeman flies 

Lifee a storm-cloud frowning past. 
Let your wild steeds spurn the plain ; 

Let youi shouts on the night-wind swell : 
With flashing brand and with loosened rein 

On, sons of Ishmael ! 

And, lo ! where the gathering warriors come 
Each from the wilds of his desert home ; 
For each glancing spear and each flying steed, 
Shall an Arab conquer, a Roman bleed : 

Onward in dusky masses wheeling, 
Ev'n as the black-winged tempests wend, 

Dimly the murky night revealing 
Brother to brother, and friend to friend. 

And, hark ! how shrill, 
Through the night- air calm and still. 

The cymbals' clash and the trumpets' peal. 
From the far encampment steal : 

Forward , on the foe ! 
Let the shout of battle swell ; 

Lay the spoiler waste, and the bolster low ! 
On, sons of Ishmael ! 

The watchman watcheth wearily, 

And the sleeper grasps his sword. 
For great is the name, and wide is the fame 

Of the wandering desert-horde ! 
O'er earth hath the conquering eagle flown 

And flapped his wings in pride ; 
But the Arab's lowly tent alone 

Hath his iron grasp defied. 

O'er the arid sands 

A moaning blast is sailing. 
And the war-horse ti-embling stands 

And snuffs the air in fear ; 
There's a rush as of mighty wings, 
And a voice as of spirits wailing, 
And a shadow blacker than midnight flings 
Its shroud o'er the night-watch drear. 

Hail to the dread sirocco. 

The leaguered Arab's friend ! 
He soareth on high in his giant strength, 

And his voice doth the desert rend ; 
There's death in his eye, and its glancing light 

Doth wither where it falls, 

And he shroudeth the sky in his whirling flight, 

And his shadow the earth appals : 
And the shifting sands uprise 

Like demons in his wake. 
And dance as in maniac revelries 

Till the sultry air doth shake ! 
And onward howling fierce they speed 

To the camp of the sleeping foe, 
And the strong-limbed men and the sinewy steed 

Are buried at a blow I 

Joy ! joy ! joy ! 

Raise the shout of triumph high ! 
To the land of the roving Arab race 

Hath the Roman come to die. 
His grave is in the sand. 

And his conqueror is the wind ; 
And the might of that dauntless warrior-band 

Doth the arm of the v/hirlwind bind ; 
And their souls have shrunk from his grasp of 

And his hot breath hath lit their funeral pyre ; 
And the hollow blast their requiem moans, 
Sweeping the sand from their whitening bones ; 

And Rome shall bow her head, 
And her widowed daughters mourn. 

For low lie her sons with the silent dead, 
i And their ashes repose not in tomb or urn. 

Hail to the wind, to the mighty wind, 

Whom none can conquer and nought can bind ! 

Wildly he wingeth his viewless way. 

Chasing the clouds in his blithesome play ; 

Proudly he sweepeth the prostrate earth, 

And rouseth the deep in his reckless mirth. 

Tossing the foaming billows high. 

And roaring in wildest revelry ! 

The globe he wandereth round and round, 

And the tempests all to his car are bound ; 

Onward he sweepeth his trackless flight. 

Free — ay ! free as the Ishmaelite: 

Him nor foe nor lord control. 

Wide as his desert wastes his soul; 

And thou, O Wind ! his friend abide, 

Foe and dread of the world beside ; 

Freely both thou and he will fly 

O'er the plains of his own loved Araby, 

And the dark-eyed queen of his home sJiall 

The guardian Power of the wilderness. 



No. II. 



But I must drink the vision while it lasts ; 
For even now the curling vapors rise, 
Wreathing their cloudy coronals, to gi-aee 
These towering summits — liidding me away ! 
But often shall my heax-t turn back again. 
Thou glorious eminence ! and, when oppressed, 
And aching with the coldness of the world, 
Find a sweet resting-place and home, with thee ! 

Rufiis names. 



It was a lowering, drizzling, uncomfortable morning, that, on which we awoke for our third day's 
enjoyment. The idea of a whole wet day in a country inn, with nothing visible around us but the 
near prospect of a hay-rick, a barn-yard, and a flock of half-drowned sheep — with nothing looking 
comfortable within doors, excepting the contented denizens of the simple homestead — and, out of 
doors, excepting some half dozen ducks revelling in a large, yellow mud-pool, which the rain was 
momentarily swelling to a respectable pond, in the middle of the road before our windows — was in- 
supportable ; and, accordingly, we soon came to the determination to proceed forthwith upon our 
journey, rain or shine. Our coach soon came up to the door, and, as speedily as we eould, we de- 
spatched our breakfasts, bundled in our luggage, bestowed ourselves cosily inside the roomy vehicle, 
drew up the glasses, and proceeded up the gorge. 

The general aspect of the country varied but little from that presented during oar yesterday's ride. 
We neared the mountains, and were conscious of climbing the ascent towards " The Notch," al- 
though we could see nothing but the near fields and forests, which looked sombre enough, in the 
midst of the pelting rain. But we were a merry party within, and cared little for the storm, as we 
were whirled onward by the well-driven team, in which out driver (its proprietor) seemed to take 
especial pride. 

We had proceeded about a dozen ov fifteen miles, as it seemed to us, (we did not travel, as the 
manner of some is, by guide-book,) when we pulled up at the door of a low farm-house, by the road- 
side, which the driver told us was " Old Crawford's. xAs this stop was to water the horses, and not 
ourselves, we preferred remaining in the coach while that opeiation was performed, the very intelli- 
gent driver telling us, meanwhile, all about " Old Crawford," the Patriarch of the Mountain Valley. 
He was yet living, and his two sons, Ethan Allen and Tom, were settled down among these hill 
passes, within short distances of the paternal roof. This was the first family, and for a long time it 
had been the only one, to take up an abode among these mountains ; and the tie which had bound 
the old man for so many years to this rude and desolate spot was growing stronger and stronger, 
as life left him less and less to anticipate, and more and more to remember. The wild denizens of 
the foiest had been his only neighbors, long and long before the foot of the curious and prying tra- 
veller had beaten a broader track than the trail of the red man, or the path of the wild beast, before 
his door. Then came the gainful devotees of trade, the hardy sons of the Green Mountain valleys, 
who had discovered a practical path along these hill sides to the Atlantic towns, for the transfer of 
their produce to market. By and by, a broader road was laid out, something like a township was 
OTganized in the neighborhood, and, of course, theie were soon mails and post offices, and stage 

190 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

coaches, and abundant travel, all along that road. All this the old man had witnessed from out the 
loop-holes of his quiet retreat, and it was not long before he, too, had become possessed of the march- 
of-mind rnania, and must see his sons afloat upon the wide sea of speculation, before he died. So 
he sent them forth from beneath his quiet roof, to make money, as publicans, out of the curiosity of 
others ; and they were now located up the valley, at two different points — themselves, as we were 
told, being curiosities, in their way, sutEcient to attract almost as many visiters to the mountains as 
the other accessories of this wild country. 

By the time the coachman had imparted to us these ficts, (sitting with us in the coach all the 
while, most familiarl}', while a boy was watering the horses,) the time for delaying at this point had 
elapsed ; our Jehu returned to the reins, and we were once more en route. As we approached " The 
Notch," the rain gr ulually abated, and we were enabled to observe more minutely the different fea- 
tures of the glorious scenerj' around us. We ivere winding our way among the bases of high moun- 
tains, springing upwards from the level on which we stood, and burying their lofty peaks in the 
clouds, that still hung in dark and heavy masses above them. The mist, thinner than the dense 
clouds that iiLled the upper air, was curling upwards and downwards, along the lower levels of the 
many hill sides, in wreaths of fantastic shape ; displaying, in succession, a series of the most pictu- 
resque landscapes, like the shiftings of scenery on the stage. In the midst of the general admiration 
which this scene of varied beauty excited, we were conscious of our near approach to a point which 
we had been told at Conway, we should find one of the most interesting in the whole journey. We 
had come to a sudden turn among the hills we had been all the morning traversing, and found our- 
selves entering a broad circular valley, at the base of a wide range of mountains, which rose, am- 
phitheatrically, all around us, as far as the eye, looking on either side, could reach. Green meadows, 
with here and there a few trees, and some attempts at cultivation, were visible in the valley, as the 
eye took in the landscape that lay stretched out before us ; and, in the midst of the whole, there ran 
a shallow and noisy stream, which however struck us as being singularly broad and rapid in its flow. 
We had listened at Conway to the tale of that swift torrent, and we gazed upon it with silent awe. 

The dark hill-sides which bounded our view on either hand were deeply indented with the paths 
that many mighty avalanches had traversed. At the base of one of these mountains, and standing 
close upon the road-side, our guide pointed cut to us the dwelling of the unfortunate Willey family ; 
and the scene of that wonderful and appalling catastrophe, the memory of which throws such a deep 
melancholy over this devoted valley, was full before us. 

An everlasting hill was torn 

From its eternal base ; and borne, 

In gold and crimson vapors dressed. 

To where — a household are at rest ! 
The mountain sepulchre of hearts beloved ! 

The cottage stood ; while the monarch trees 

Leaned back from the encountering breeze, 
As the tremendous pageant moved ! 

The mountain forsook his perpetual throne. 

Came down from his lock, and his path was shown. 

In barrenness and ruin, where 

The secret of his power lies bare ; 

His locks in nakedness arise! 

His desolations mock the skies ! 

" The Willey House" stands at the foot of one of the loftiest of the White Mountains, with a 
small knoll thrown up, naturally, directly in its rear. In the summer of 1826, a young woman 
and her four children were sitting in that cottage, awaiting the return of her husband and their fa- 
ther, from the plain above "The Notch." It was just after night-fall, and the supper table was 
spread in readiness for the arrival of the master of that simple family. It was a chilly evening, and 
a bright fire burned merrily on the hearth, and aided the beams of the candle, that stood on the table, 
in giving the little cabin a cheerful and comfortable look. Suddenly, a loud rumbling noise, like the 
muttering of distant thunder, but shorter and more abrupt, was heard. As the cottage trembled with 
the concussion of air occasioned by the report, the good woman (who was represented to us as hav- 
ing been singularly fair and beautiful) doubtlessly remembered that such noises had not been unu- 
sual that season, and, moreover, that they had always accompanied the numerous slides which were 
constantly occuriing among those mountains. She put her sleeping babe into her bed in the adjoin- 
ing room, and sat down, once more, to await her husband's return. 

It was about an hour nfter this, that a single horseman was taking his solitary way down this 
mountain pass. Feeling somewhat chilled as he came in sight of the ruddy glow that was thrown 
from the windows of the Willey cottage, he abandoned his intention of pushing on to the lower 
Crawford's that night, and dismounted at the door of the house, which he observed wfis standing 
wide open. No one answering his call for attendance, as he held hia bridle in his hand, befote. the 


cottage, he determined to put up his Iiorse himself, and for this purpose he crossed the narrow road, 
in the direction, as he well remembered, of the stable belonging to the house. But no such build- 
ing was there! Perplexed with doubts as to the cause of this strange mistake in his recollection, 
the traveller tied his horse to a corner of the fence beside the cottage, and went in. 

There stood the table in the middle of the floor, the candle burning brightly, and the lire blazing 
cheerily upon the hearth, just as has already been described. But nothing living met tJie eye, nm- 
greeted the ear of the stranger, excepting a cat, which was sleeping quietly upon the hearth-stone! 
A feeling of horror, he could not tell wherefore, crept over the wayfarer, as he gazed upon the scene. 
Where were the members of that family for whom all these comforts were prepared — nay, some of 
whom had, as was most plainly perceptible, within a few short moments, been enjoying them 1 — 
There was no human habitation, he well knew, within many miles, and the nearest of these by 
more than one half was that he had left more than an hour before, in " The Notch." He had come 
the only road between the two points, and had met no one. He went into the sleeping room, ad- 
joining tlie apartment he had first entered. There was u bed, the coverings of which were thrown 
down to the foot, and he observed that the bedding had been pressed but slightly, and, as he thought 
he could surely peiceive, by no other foira than that of an infant. There were two other rooms in 
the cottage, inio both of which he went, but no sign of human inhabitant was visible ! 

He returned to the open air. The night was clear and star-lit. The air was cold and biacing, 
though it was midsummer. The stranger walked forth into the road a few paces. He had been in 
the habit, i-egularly, once a year, of travelling this road, but remembered only its more prominent 
features ; yet he thought that the little river which ran through the valley was noisier then than he 
had ever known it before, and as he had met with some more obstruction in the road, when on foot, 
than he had seemed to do before he dismounted from his horse, he thought that there was some 
change in the level of the highway since he was there last. But these changes, if, indeed, they were 
not imaginary, he found quite insufKcient to afford him the least clue to the solution of the mystery 
that was every moment becoming more and more intolerable to him. He threw himself once more 
upon his saddle, and rode rapidly back to the younger Crawford's, in " The Notch ;" to whom he 
told the story of his inexplicable adventure. The son of the forest instantly called up his men, and 
with them and the stranger, took horse, and went down to the valley with ail speed. 

" Had you heard any noises, like the fall of a slide from the hills, as you rode along 1" asked Craw- 
ford, of the stranger. 

" Only one since that which I heard when with you, at your house," replied the other. 

" When did you hear the second repoit?" said Tom Crawford. 

'• About twenty minutes before I came to Willey's," said the traveller. " It was far louder than 
the other, and continued longer — like thunder echoing among the mountains." 

The haidy denizen of the mountain passes was puzzled. Suppose it were a slide — the people 
gonCj and nothing destroyed ! It was all inexplicable. 

Reaching the entrance to the valley, it became evident to ihf! practised eye of the mountaineer 
that an avalanche of unusual extent had fallen from the hill-siJe uirectlj' in the rear of the Wille}' 
cottage. It was dark, and he could not see minute objects, but a huge heap of gravel lay directly 
in the road, as the travellej-s neared the house, and it became obvious that the barn had been carried 
away by the slide. Going a few steps below the house, it was perceptible to Crawford that a por- 
tion of the mass of earth had fallen on the lower, as well as on the upper side of the cottage, and 
that both tiie masses had united their tremendous forces nearly in front of the unharmed habitation ! 
The party entered the house. Every thing, even to the quiet slumbering of the unconscious animal 
that lay upon tlie hearth, wap just as it was left by the stranger, and still no hitman life was there/ 

" They have fled from the avalanche, to seek shelter in the valley," suggested the traveller. 

" They have gone down to the tent," oaid his companion ; " I know where it is — let us on, and 
find them ! They set up the tent on purpose ; for these slides are happening, at this time of year, 
every day ; and this summer they have been more common than ever. So Willey had a tent put 
up, down by the brook." 

But no tent could be found ! The brook was now a swift and turbulent flood, and was flowing, 
in a broad and resistless stream, over the site of the camp of refuge ; while the cottage, whence the 
lost ones had fled, was standing in the still clear night, safe and unharmed! How " past finding 
out" are all the ways of over-ruling Providence ! 

It were profanity to dwell upon the scene which was presented in that wild and quiet valley when 
the tidings of this disaster had reached the home of the lost wife's early childhood. The husband's, 
father's, mother's, brother's griefs are sacred. I forbear the attempt to paint them. Yet, as I gazed 
upon the scene, I have fancied the lament which, on that morning, must have burst from the heart 
of each, as each looked, through gushing tears, upon that fearfully quiet scene 

" Oh, I have lost ye all ! 

Children, and wife, and friends ! 
Ye sleep beneath a mountain-pall ! 
A mountain-plumage o'er ye bends ! 



The clLS^trees, in funereal gloom, 
Are now the only mourning plumes 
That nod above your lonely tombs ! 
Sweet valley of the hills ! farewell ! 
An Alpine monument shall dwell 
Upon thy bosom, oh, my home ! 

Sleep thee, my loved ones, sleep thee ! 

While yet I live, I'll weep thee I 

Of thy blue dwelling drtam, wherever I roam, 

And wish myself wrapped in thy peaceful foam I 

Sweet vale ! sweet home ! farewell ! 

My cold harp, cease thy swell ! 

Till tuned where my loved ones dwell ! 

My home ! farewell ! farewell !" 



Ye're fading from me now. 
Ye fair, sweet relics, treasured here so long, 

Like gladness from my heart, 
Or the last echo of some cherish'd song. 

Why have I ever loved 
What fate seems earliest with decay to touch ] 

Why lived, but to have proved 
That I alone have loved in vain too much ? 

How like to yours, sweet flowers. 
Was the glad promise of my youthful morn ! 

Hope pictur'd rose-wrcath'd hours. 
But the fair blossom ever brought its thorn. 

Where is that rainbow wing 
Resting beside my pathway — lending there 

A light to every thing, 
A smile to sunny earth like angels wear 1 

Faded as ye, and gone ; 
For oh ! I cherish'd what was made to die. 

And weary and alone, 
Mourn that I built not hopes above the sky. 

In your pale, fragile forms. 
Dear wither'd flowers, my heart may truly trace 

The conflicts and the storms 
That shroud and compass all the human race. 

I I've clung to friendship's chain 

, Till, Unk by link, it parted in my grasp ; 
i All, all have been in vain. 

And the cold fetters round my heart-strings clasp. 

The first free gush is o'er ; 
The fountain that was wont, with silvery sound, 
1^ Soft melody to pour, 
Is frozen at the source — by ice-chains bound. 

I And ye, mementoes pale, 

1 Were smiling gladly when I took ye first ; 

But ah ! the unseen gale 
On your devoted heads in anger burst. 

Ye might have lived to feel 
Longer the gentle hand — the soft caress 

Round your young blossoms steal — 
Had not my fingers leani'd their buds to press. 

Ye loved me not in life, 
Else, gentle flowers, your pure and fragrant breath 

Would still with sweets be rife. 
Not slumbering coldly 'neath the touch of death. 

But I will cherish ye. 
Companions — confidants — of lonely hours ; 

My heart your tomb shall be, 
Where ye with memory lie, wild wither'd 



(Comimied from page 128.) 

Sweet to the youth the stolen kiss, 

From chilling lips, thatthide for bliss ; 

To husband deal' tixe half caress 

Of bride scarce taught her right to bless ; 

To her, oh, sweet the chtrab lip 

Of babe that laughs her breast to sip — 

But dearer far, when chains are riven, 

Is Freedom's gift, by Freemen given. 



A STILL and beautiful morning dawned on the Sea-GuU and the Tiger, grappled fast together, 
and bending buoyantly over the broad irregular footsteps of the hurricane. American colors drooped 
in silent brotherhood from each, as if rebuked at the awful sight beneath. Not in the sweeping 
rush and stunning THe/e'e ars the horrors of battle ; but its scourging reality comes sickening over us at 
the after -scene. Scarcely a spot on the deck of the prize was unstained with blood ; and many young 
hearts, fresh perhaps from their mother's knee, withered at their own work. The slain lay stiff in 
oozing puddles of gore, which dripped in sluggish clots through the scuppers, reddening the sea 
around, and creeping up through the caps of floating foam, which grinned like death-heads on the 
waves. Sometimes a groan and struggle from a pile of bodies would tell of some one alive or dying, 
for the fight was hardly ended at dawn. It was a study of strange and fearful interest to view the 
faces of the dead, and gather from their grim expression what last thought flashed then, whether of 
eternity, home, or mortal hate. There was the reeking weapon clutched, the sabre half-sheathed in 
the ample chest, and enemies locked in hideous embrace, looking wrath even in death. The wild dis- 
array of the rigging, especially of the Tiger, told a horrible tale. The unbalanced yards and dangling 
ropes were glistening in the sunshine with human blood. Tufts of scalp, and shreds of clothing 
■were glued to the yards and shrouds ; more than one dead man was lodged in the top or swung 
stark elsewhere ; and when the stiffened topsails vv^ere spread to the air, irregular blood spots stained 
the snow-white canvas. The living were mustered, and many names were unanswered ; the dead 
were gathered together on the main deck of the Tiger; a short ceremonial of a burial service answer- 
ed for all ; their requiem was the cannon's roar, and the ocean's wail ; and the same wave swept 
over friend and enemy. Trembling and pale with emotion, which no one could divine, Walter De 
Berrian was wandering over the deck. An order to release the prisoners in the hold of the Tiger, 
hurried him to the hatchway ; when, listening breathlessly, he heard the cHnk of hammers, and many 
glad voices in French. Walter sickened and arose — there was no English voice. Several wasted 
Frenchmen, in tattered naval uniform, were supported to the deck. As the free air of the sea braced 
their languid frames, they wildly thanked their deliverers, and that mightier power of the skies. A 
tall and noble one among them gazed fondly for a moment at the flaunting colors, and exclaimed in 
English, " Hail America ! hail liberty, first born darling of my country !" The home word?, the im- 
passioned tone and look called forth a loud huiTah, and Walter slowly read in the flashing face of 
the noble released, the features of Charles Hairaan. The recognition was not mutual. 

Long after the imperial sun had retired in the blaze of the world's applause, De Berrian was hur- 
riedly pacing the Sea-Gull's deck. It was one of those hazy delicious nights at sea, when invisible 
spirits entrance the wanderer with the minstrelsy of home, of love, and woman. The ocean wore 
his gossamer of web-spun glass, the sky was soft, the stars voluptuous in their gaze, and the moon 
wept tears so sad and sweet, that the poet saw in her a lovely mourner's face, pensive through the 
veil her sighs have dampened. All felt the rapture of that hour. The gruff " port helm," " and 
steady so," were gentler than their wont ; the rude jest and ribald song were hushed. 

194 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

Presently a note, low and floating, stole upon ear as mystic as the serenade of air ; it was the me- 
lody of" Home, sweet home," that song exquisite even in home's green bowers, and oh, how thrill- 
ing away ! The wooing breeze lingered on the topsail's bosom, and the silver billows hushed their 
tinkling fall to listen to the lay. Wild and deep it swelled to the fervid rapture of passion — but at 
the last fond line, " theie is no place like home," the minstrel's tongue forgot its duty, and the song 
was ended in a sigh. That sigh was borne to Walter's ear, whispering the gentle name of Catharine 
coupled with his own. He started, looked to the singer, and Charles Harman was sitting in the 
shadow of the mainsail, gazing tearfully on the sea. Walter trembled as he approached. 
i^ " In tears, my friend, and the night so lovely 1" 

" It is at such a time," answered Charles, " that the nothingness of life is seen apart from hope. 
But a day ago, I was a prisoner, yet wept not; for hope pictured a future of joy. Now that I am 
free, and among my countrymen, I sorrow at the eternity between happiness and me." 

"You are an American^" 

" I am. I left America several years before the war. Landing a stranger in the West Indies, I 
had the good fortune to render an important service to the French Admiral of the station, and at his 
hands I was honored with a commission in the Navy of the republic." 

" But — Charles — the duell" — unguardedly asked the other. 

" Heavens ! who are you ?" 

" Walter De Berrian." 

The cousins were clinging in each others arms, and how wildly affecting was that meeting. The 
time, the place, the strange improbability and stranger reality I Is there not a destiny whose 
mightiest agent is a word, a trifle 1 How often is the eternal flat of weal or wo, to a world, or its 
obscurest tenant, dated from a nod or born in a syllabic ! For many moments of intensest feeling, 
neither of the young men spoke, Harman first- broke silence. His inquiries were rapid, and his 
emotion overwhelming. " How, O Weaker, my cousin, and fiiend, how, and why, do I find you here ?" 

" How, and why, are you here ]" eagerly inquired De Berrian, " or, rather, are you here ] years 
ago you were numbered vi^ith the dead, and at this liour your father and Catharine are mourning." 

" Good God ! how is this? they are alive and well !" passionately demanded Charles, 

" They were, when I saw them last — but tell me your strange disappearance." 

By broken inquhies the agitated young Harman gleaned from Walter the time and manner of his 
departure from their mutual home. It was long ere he was suflSciently composed to narrate the 
mystery of his being. The story was one of vivid interest, a key to tlie wayward impulses of ad- 
venture ; a leaf from the visions of youth, dreaming, restless, and insatiate. 

" And that duel," said Charles Harman, " an obscure brawl, with a nameness villain, is the pivot 
of my destiny and yours, the poisoning spring to my father's age and my sister's youth ! On the 
night of ni}' arrival at New Orleans, I was in a crifc, in company with several travelling acquaintances, 
with whom I had contracted a sort of off-hand companionship, v/ith little thought or inquiry as to 
character. One of the fellows took offence at a heedless word from me, and demanded immediate 
satisfaction. The others seemed to legard it as a matter of course, and one of them oliered to act as 
my friend. I confess, stranger and friendless as I was, far from a delightful home, I might never see 
again, the idea of standing up to stop bullets, was not captivating. We fought immediately, on a 
deserted levee, by starhght. My honorable opponent fired before his time, and his ball whistled by 
my ear. The truth flashed on me ; I was entiapped by a gang of those murderous villains that in- 
fest the city — I fired instantly — the scoundrel fell with a howl — and I was knocked down from be- 
hind, stabbed, robbed, and left for dead. 

Two days after, in the retired house of a true-hearted Virginian, the fi-st flash of returning sense 
gleamed across my brain ; and, steaUng over my heated face, I felt the silken touch of ostrich feathers 
as if waved by a child of air. I heard a nursery glee of spring and infancy, and the tones were soft, 
clear, and warbling, as echo's lay in the stilly night. Entranced, my eyes opened on a rosy girl of 
eleven, standing between the folds of the damask curtain, and waving, as she sung, a bunch of 
feathers over my face. She was beautiful, oh, as purely beautiful as the youngest star of evening. 
Her laughing lips just swelling with the ruby streaks of the ripening cherry — her cheeks of pulpy 
oval and blossom tints — her floating eyes, of that delicious ocean blue, when Autumn and eve are 
slumbering on its distant waves — and, above all, her wild ringlets, soft and auburn, as if spun by 
genii from the dovi^n of gold, burst upon me, the vivid personation of all that is pure and exquisite in 
Heaven. Trembling, blushing, frightened at my devouring gaze, she glided away with the noiseless 
mystery of a sylph — yet one glance — one instant glance I caught of her figure ! Fairies would have 
worshipped it; angels would have stolen it away to heaven, as a model to correct their own defor- 
mity ! She was gone — and I wondered at life, truth, and creation. 

I was subdued ; the restless, gnawing, spirit of travel was gone, it seemed for ever. Distinction 
was a phantom — Romance a mockery of reality, and storied History but an urn of ashes that winds 
would idly scatter. Home rose up before me, and something whispered the sin of my aimless de- 
seition. What cause — what light had I to hurl from my lips the chalice of joy, when the happiness 
of others was mingled in its draught 1 Long and accusing was that reverie — maiay and repentant 
were the resolves I vowed ! 


My benefactor was a gentleman by the name of WooJvillc. He h--i(l discovered me on the scene 
of my encounter, as he was returning from the city, at a later hour thafi usual. His wife was a lady 
of accomplished manners, and true southern urbanity. They had but one child — the lovely Agnes — 
the spirit of my every thought. 

Heavens, how my heart leaped with frantic delight, when, as I awoke next morning, she skipped 
into the room, and mischcviously threw a dew-dipped bunch of flowers on my cheek. Hours, days, 
swept uncounted on. I was eighteen, ardent, ;ui(l grateful. I loved, adored, my fairy queen, and 
slowly, surely, deliciously, read her untutored heart. She breathed its infant purity at one only 
shrine — that shiine was myself. There, on a bed of heavenly pain, playing with flowers and curls, 
songs, and kisses, I won from the artless Agnes a half-sworn promise to be my little wife. Years 
have tlown since then, yet still it is a joy past words, to think here, on this wide sea, in the storm suid 
hurry of a perilous life, that there is a tear and prayer for me on that cherub's pillow." 

A tear that stole into De Berrian's eye betrayed the sympathy of that priceless thought. Harman 
continued — 

" What a record of human weakness may be writteii from the dreams, the changes of an hour ! 
I had recovered, and strolled out on a fresh bright morning. It was on the 4th of Jul}^ I had stepped 
upon the tide of the world's existence, and it swept me on. Clouds were striding in splendid ma- 
jesty across the sky ; the flaunting breezes came loaded with the perfume of prairies, and ringing 
with the din of life. Nature and man were shaming my listless content. That great city rejoiced — 
I watched the proud tread of the gleaming ranks, and snuflTed the wind that wafted the roar of drum 
and cannon. Standing in the shadow of the star-spangled flags, I heard the orator's deep appeal, 
and joined iir the people's answering shout. In that wild hour, I felt that the world could not hold 
m}^ soul ; the powerful spirit of travel was on me. 

" I held I he child Agnes to my bosom, and kissed away the tears that bedewed her face. That 
parting was fond and agonizing. The next day I was bounding across the turbid waters of the 
Mexican Gulf in a swift West Indian trader. It was onboard that I first sav? a casual notice of that 
fatal duel. The paper spoke of ' An affair of honor between a blackleg and a young man, a stranger, 
whose name was ascertained to be Charles Harman. Both were killed at the first fire.' Fearful 
of a distressing mistake, I wrote home at the first opportunity." 
"No letter was ever received," answered Walter. 
" Dreadful," said Charles ; " my poor father ! my dearest sister !" 

" Sail, ho !" from the look-out, startled the communing cousins. Far away to windward there 
shone a scarcely distinguishable cloud-like spot. Captain Parole called for his night glass, and the 
Sea-Gull shortened sail. In a little time the distant spot swelled into the dim outline of a square- 
rigged vessel. The captain looked for a moment, and handed the glass to De Berrian. At the first 
sui vey he dropped it from his eye, and exclaimed — " The Atalanta !" 

The ship came majestically along lilie a queen of the sea, till suddenly she hauled as close to the 
wind as she could stagger. A gun across her bows from both the Tiger and Sea-Gull, was regarded 
with easy contempt. 

" She can't escape," remarked captain Parole, " and it is a pity to cut up that holyday suit of hers." 
The brig and schooner ran as close as possible to the wind, and in about two hours the Sea-Gull 
hove a broadside into the ship. The colois came sudden'y to the deck, and the tall Atalanta fell 
under the lee of her puny conqueror. Great was the astonishment of the prize-guard when they 
saw the Tiger wearing American colors — greater still, when almost the first that sprung upon deck 
were their quondam messmate Peter, and the prisoners De Berrian and Harman. But what was the 
amazement of the American skipper and crew, when De Berrian and their old cook Peter, were 
knocking off their irons'! On the fifth day after, the Sea-Gull and her prizes came to an anchor in 
the harbor of St. Labrador. 

In three days the gallant Sea-Gull was ready for saa. Her restless captain yearned for the broad 
fierce ocean. The signal was already flying at the fore, when a gig manned by U. S. seaman, came 
alongside, and Charles Harman stepped on board. Walter was silently sitting on a gun. 

" I have come again," said Charles, anxiously taking his hand, " I will throw up my commission 
for your consent. Walter — you will — you must go home with rae." 
" The Sea-Gull is my home !" 

" Walter !" implored his cousin, stooping till their cheeks touched, " can you bear unkindness to 
my sister 1 'Tis you that are scornful. Come, and by my own love, she shall forgive !" 
" Forgive ! she has nothing to forgive, that I acknowledge." 
" She shall be yours, or I leave that home again forever." 

" Never !" firmly answered De Berrian, " she said it — no blood-stained hand should twine bridal 
flowers around her haughty brow. Her proud father would give her not to a penny less dog ! 'Tis 
I that forgive, but can I forget 1 " 

At this moment Peter came aft, and handed a bundle to Walter. He silently unwrapped it, and 
displayed the uniform of a lieutenant. 

" Our brave second- lieutenant," said Walter, " was killed in the action. I am in his stead, Charlee, 
the Sea-Gull is my home." 


burton's gentleman's magazine. 

" Then there is no hope," sighed young Harman, " and I must seek my home alone. What a tale 
for ray accusing sister ! Have you nothing — no word — or letter to send 1" 

" Tell Catharine," said Walter with an effort, " that her long-mourned brother was a captive on 
the sea, and that cousin she cursed bled to win his freedom. Tell her we have talked of happier 
days, in the silence of the midnight watch, and her name was ever spoken with a blessing. Say, if 
my last prayer be said on sea or shore, her name shall close my lips. Give her this braid — you 
know when she gave it" — and a tear stood in his eye — " it may recall the time when she thought 
more kindly of its wearer. It is the last memento of Walter De Berrian." 

Charles hid the braid in his bosom, for he could not speak. 

" Peter," asked Walter, for the negro had been listening with intense interest, " would you not go 
home to your friends'?" 

" No, massa," returned the faithful black, with a reproachful look, " you all my friends — neber 
leave you, you gwine — I'm gwine too." 

But a vivid change had brightened the noble features of the handsome Harman; he stood pioud 
and tall with curling lip, and dilated nostril ; his eye was rivetted on a small squadron that was 
bounding into port under the glorious tri-colored flag. 

" Walter, I am not the culprit bearer of your message. See there," and he proudly pointed to a 
beautiful witch-like schooner, amid the squadron, " there is La belle lanthe — she has been re-taken — 
I go to report myself to the commandant. I serve under a foreign flag, but against the enemies of 
my country." 

De Beirian's eye rested with a sailor's delight on the elegant fabric that slid over the water with 
the easy hauteur of a coquette — he turned to his cousin — 

" Think of your father and sister." 

" Think of my honor," was the proud answer. 

De Berrian gladly grasped his hand, and exclaimed, " honor first — may God bless you !" 

The drum sent forth its rolling prelude, and Peter sprang away. Charles Harman went over the 
side, and Walter felt that the last link was broken. The Sea-Gull was sailing to her glory and her 



When from thee I did part away, 

And from my land for years, 
I did not think to come again 

With those same parting tears. 
I come again to hill and lea — 

Weeping for thee ! 

Thine hand was clasped warm in mine 

When I was standing last 
Upon the shore of cheeiful green. 

Our vessel neareth fast. 
1 shall be there — no longer wt — 

No more with iliec ! 

Had I beheld thee still and dead, 

I might more cleaily know. 
How heart of thine could turn as cold 

As hearts by nature so — 
How change could touch the falsehood-free 

And changeless thee ! 

But now thy last-seen tender looks 

Within my soul remain ; 
And it is hard to think that they 

Will shine no more again — 

That I shall vainly wait — ah me ! 
No word from thee ! 

I could not bear to look upon 
That mound of funeral clay. 

Where one sweet voice is silentness 
And one fair brow decay — 

Wheie all thy mortal I niight sec — 
But never thee ! 

For thou art where the loving are, 

Whose parting pain is o'er ! 

And I who love and weep alone, 

Where thou wilt weep no more, 

Weep bitterly, not selfishly, 

For me, not thee ! 

I know that thou can'st never know 

The anguish which I feel ; 
Because upon no brows in Heaven, 

An earthly grief may steal — 
And grief thou knewest mine, would be 

Still shared by thee ! 




London should be visited for the sake of Westminster Abbey. On one side you have the Parha- 
ment, another antiquity full of grandeur, and connected witli interesting reminiscences, Tw^o new 
societies inhabit these walls, which were built by two societies now no more, for creeds which time 
has abolished. The work of thought has perished, the work of the hand has survived. Liberty has 
given a new youth to the old halls of Parliament. Protestantism has exiled from Westminster Ab- 
bey the Catholic descendants of those who built it. 

On entering Westminster Abbey you are met by a kind of usher. " Do you wish to see the whole 
edifice, or only a part?" and he names you the two prices. The bargain struck, he goes to wake 
another usher, who is asleep on a chair at the foot of a pillar a few paces distant. This man rises, 
and rubs his eyes, and then conducts you to all the tombs of importance, naming, as he goes on, the 
persons who are buried. If you remain too long in one chapel, he politely requests you to finish 
your tour, telling you that when he has shown all you will be at liberty to retrace your steps. This 
I never failed to do. 

The first time that I visited this beautiful Abbey was on the occasion of a great wind. One might 
say that the clouds were tearing themselves to pieces against the roofing {ioiture,) This mysterious 
noise above my head, and the silence at my feet and around me, confounded me. I have felt some- 
thing like it in the woods, at the foot of great trees, when the rising wind begins to shake their tops, 
and the grass is not even bent. But in the middle of a great nave, surrounded by the tombs of eight 
centuries, standing as a minute and weak man before an immense work made by the hand of man, 
with a mind lost in doubt and uncertainty in the presence of two religions which have deeply moved 
the human mind — in this situation I have experienced, in a degree still more lively, the singular 
state when thought seems to cease, and the pulse to beat no more. Strange that such mighty spec- 
tacles are requisite to overcome the mind of a man and to suspend for a moment thought, which is 
so indocile ! Strange, that the voice of great forests, the murmuring of the sea, the silence of old 
mountains, is not more than sufficient to silence for an instant the little sound which we call thought ! 

Catholicism built this great church for a great leligion, that a whole people might go there to hear 
the woid of God chanted viiih all the force of the human voice ; that man might feel his own little- 
ness in the temple of God, finding that the mighty song of assembled multitudes beneath its vaulted 
roof did not crack the edifice. Protestantism, by taking possession of Westminster Abbey, has 
straitened it for its own religion de salons, for its chants by women and children of the choir, for its 
sermons before a small auditor}-, for a handful of the faithful to which the minister reads prayers in 
a grave and sober voice, without accent, and without vibration. The nave of the old temple has 
been cut in half, and a boarded enclosure has been made with seats and benches for about a hun- 
dred of the faithful. The other half is empty ; the consecrated soil begins at this wretched bit of 
carpenter's work, which has been built but to rot, while the walls, which generations raised for 
eternity, are neither revered nor profaned, unless by the rows of tombs which stand as an object of 
veneration for the traveller. Protestantism had not voice enough to fill these vast aisles, nor to ascend 
to these vaulted roofs ; a mutilated edifice was necessarj^ for a mutilated religion ; less space was re- 
quired for reason than for faith. 

The struggle between two religions in the same church is not less plainly shown by the tombs of 
Westminster Abbey. Catholicism reared it, Catholicism stamps the greatest character on the tombs. 
I am not here speaking of art; there are more skilful strokes of the chisel in the monuments of Pro- 
testantism ; in those of Ca'holicism there is little more than faith, often without art, but we feel a 
force in their workmanship, and a sort of certainty of another life, which touches us profoundly. 
Those effigies of the Kings of the Norman race, all lying armed on the tombstones, all with joined 
hands, in the same attitude, all conceived according to one idea, though successive ages may have 
improved their execution ; those women, those children, those faithful servants.who are ranged about 

198 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

the tomb, kneeling, their hands joined as those of the deceased, who mourn not, but pray, because 
tears pass away, not faith, and man can pray always rathei than mourn ; all these figures, who re- 
present the drama of death, but do not play it, as in certain Protestant monuments — all this ndivdi 
of an art, I say, the masters of which were but simple workmen, exercises a singular sway over the 
imagination and the heart. The design has been to make really dead persons ; there is the vei-y stiff- 
ness of a corpse in these limbs ; nought is beating under this armor, these eyes are closed to open no 
more ; the tomb is sealed, all is finished, but the artist has conveyed by these joined and heaven-lifted 
hands a thought — yes, the thought that possessed the deceased before he resigned his soul to God — 
the thought which inspired the artist himself, and often repaid him for his toils — the thought which 
filled the servants and the children of the deceased, the people who followed his obsequies, and the 
priest who sprinkled holy water on his rehcs — in a word, the thought that God may be disarmed by 

In the tombs of Protestantism unity is gone. We find the diversity of a museum — ^busts, emblems, 
and statues. It is no more religious thought, but caprice and vanity, which gives the idea of a mo- 
nument ; it is art without faith which executes it. Praj'er is no more considered ; dramatic attitudes 
are given to the dead ; some threaten, others smile upon you ; one plays a part, and another expires 
with a grace. I have seen some mounting to heaven surrounded by clouds, and others haranguing 
Parliament. There is a noble lady who died, doubtless, much regretted b3',hcr husband ; she is in 
her bed, expiring, while Death — that is to say, the great black skeleton with the scythe in its hand, 
which serves to frighten ciiildren — darts from a secret cavern under the bed of this poor lady. The 
husband perceives him ; places himself between his wife and death, holds his suppUant hands to the 
latter, and entreats it with tears in his eyes. Now, translate all this : — hard Nightingale was a good 
husband, or, at any rate, wished to pass as such. But who was Lmd Nightingale 1 Why, a person 
who was rich enough to bury his wife at Westminster. This abbey is not confined to Kings and 
great men ; it is a Pantheon, where every one pays for his place, and that dearer than at a cemetery. 
Shakspeare occupies less space there than Tuady Nightingale. George Canning and Pitt lie each 
under a slab with their name inscribed. Those whose mere name does not say enough are not in a 
position to be better known, or do not deserve it. Leave all this train of epithets and show of titles 
to those who have only made their life known by their death. A stone and a name is enough for 
celebrated men, since there is no longer a faith to lay them on their tombs, and to join their hands, 
and thus to show that their strength was only in prayer. The epitaph and monument should be left 
to history, and the deep impression whicli a grand biography concealed under a slab of six feet makes 
on the mind should not be stilled under works of masonry. 

This profusion of tombs does not convey the idea of death. A grave newly dug, a coffin from 
which the pall has been removed, the shovel-full of earth thrown upon it — these touch much more 
forcibly. Death, as a collective idea, only inspires declamations, and awakens no real sorrow. On 
the contrary, the nearer we are to the corpse, the more sad and impressive is this idea. 

I am ashamed to confess that I went through " Poet's-corner" with indifference ; yet Shakspeare 
is there, or rather his statue and cenotaph, paid for by two performances at Drury-lane, for his actual 
remains lie beneath the stones of the church at Stratford, where his age sufiered him to die, caring 
no more for his death than his birth. Singular enough ! he lived in the time of Elizabeth, in one of 
those epochs of public prosperity wlsen the slightest superiority stand? in its full light, and j^et there 
is less information respecting his life than that of the most insignificant courUer, Some have written 
that he was bailifl' of a county, others that he poached on the estates of great lords ; that ho held the 
horses of the audience at the gates of the theatre, and played the ghosts in his own pieces. You 
will not find his history in his dramas — you will not perceive the author under his characters. He 
creates men, gives them passions, and when this is done, leaves them to be carried on by those 
passions, and troubles himself no more aliout them. If they commit faults, they pay the penalty — 
if they are stronger than events, they overcome them — if weaker, they yield. Shakspeare has not, 
like our tragedians, a favorite character by which he communicates himself to the pit; the one who 
happens to be on the stiige is the one he loves the best. You would bo his dupe if you strove to seek 
him in the parts he has created, and under the masks which he has given to the great passions which 
excite tears or laughter. You believe him oppressed by a sombre melancholy, v/hen perhaps he was 
a heaity laugher, who loved to give free play to his imagination, and to prate like Cassio with the 
passing shade ; or perhaps he was some cateloss pliLlasopher, appearing at the fall of the curtain, at 
the moral of his terrible drama, with a calm fine countenance, and with the air of a man who is un- 
moved amid so many calamities, and says to the pit, " None of this was my fault." His statue says 
nothing to you, and this empty tomb, in which there is not even a particle of his ashes, is but a 
figure in a museum — a museum of tombs, if you will have it so. Besides, placed as he is, in a little 
nook ui the wall, he is crowded by poets, who beyond the learned circles of London have scarcely 
more celebrity than our album and almanack writers, with even some prosaists among them. Such 
an arrangement is erroneous ; there is no interest in this amalgamation of glories of all degrees ; emotion 
is destroyed by cuiiosity. It is only in the presence of the old tombs of Catholicism that the imagi- 
nation is awakened, and that we feel all that is great and touching in the past. 



That which chiefly aflfects us in ages gone by is the moral character which distinguishes them from 
our own. If we love the majestic aspect of the old churches, those works of faith and religion, it is 
because on every subject our convictions are but weak and wavering ; because we feel the necessity 
of betaking ourselves to something strong, to something which comes home to us, and which allows 
us to rest awhile from our wearisome contradictions. If we arc forcibly struck by all that bears the 
mark of enthusiasm, it is because in us enthusiasm has been withered by experience, and because, 
dreading, above all, to be dupes, or even to appear such, weenvy the peace of those simple men who 
did not laugh aloud at those grave matters on which depend happiness and misery, and who did not 
hide themselves to perform their duties. 

If we love the ligures that pray on the old monuments, it is because on modem tombs religious 
thought has been stifled by wordly thought, doubtless that the deceased themselves might not be the 
laughing-stocks of the curious. If the majestic uniformity of Catholicism inspires us with sincere 
respect, it is because we are now accustomed to diversity and isolation, willingly contesting all human 
authority less by the arriere-pensees of disorganization than on account of the incapacity we feel of con- 
vincing ourselves of the rights of any one whatever — a strange situation for people who are thus in 
a state of dull and perpetual insurrection ! There is no regret in the comparison we make between 
the past and the present; our mind is distracted for a moment — that is all ! This temporary distrac- 
tion does not afterwards make us bear more clumsily the load of uncertainties, of contradictions, and 
of scruples, which render us cold scoffers from the fear of being enthusiastic ; lastly, of our caprices 
and our isolations, all of which illude us by their appearing to proceed from liberty. Liberty makes 
us love our own age with a real and positive love, and ages past with a love puiely poetical. The 
aspect of an old cathedral does not cure a heart sick with excess of liberty ; and I verily believe that. 
Westminster Abbey would not remove one doiibt of a person of this century. 




Lady, some missioned angel smiled 
Upon thee when thou wast a child ; 
For in that pensive eye of thine 
Celestial colors softly shine ; 
And on that sweet, expressive face, 

The lustre of a quiet mind 
Softly reposes — like the trace 

Of starlight trembling, when the wind 
Breaks the smooth mirror of the sea — 

Or like that strange, delusive light, 
When sleep has set the fancy fiee 

To soar beyond the dome of Night. 

Can'st thou be real 1 art thou not 
Too beauteous for this earthly spot ? 
Upon that brow, so clear and high, 
Has sorrow rested 1 has a sigh 
Or tear been thine, or any shade 
Of grief upon thy spirit laid 1 
Ah, yes ! if, in this dreary world, 

One, so devinely fiir — around 
Whose form bright pinions should be furled 

To keep it holy — can be found ; 
In hours gone by, some change to pale 

Thy morning splendor must have passed, 
Though all life's woes, like shadows, fail 

Before thy happy smile to last. 

VOL. V. — 50. IV. 1 

Joy, tranquil joy and mild content 
In those angelic features blent, 
Tell like a fountain's sparkling flow 
That all is pure and bright below. 

And thou hast crossed youth's flowery -^erge : 

And well I deem, relentless Time 
Doth towaids that path thy footsteps urge 

When, just beyond their sunniest prime, 
The ripe fruits of the season fall. 

And puiple clusters on the vine 
Droop from the greenly- mantled wall. 

In rich maturity, like thine ! 
A perfect woman — fairest, best, 

Of all this world holds fair and good — 
If man without thee were unblest. 

How dark would be his solitude ! 
When, to the ancient sculptor's gaze, 

The perfect figure, that his art 
Could from the formless marble raise. 

Appeared like light — his bounding heart 
Could not have felt a deeper bliss 

Than when, with life and beauty wami, 
Thy pencil. Sully, traced a form 

So lovely and so true as this ! 



Freely Trafiisluted from the German of Baron Von Biedenfeld. 

BX 51 HS, E. r. ELLET. 

The thunder of battle was suspended, but for a time. Forces were gathered from all quarters to 
take the field again. On the road from Carcassonne to Toulouse all was bustle and tumult; crowds 
of fresh recruits, burning with zeal and hatred of the English, were hastening along with the regular 
troops to join the army of Soult. They were met by many rich proprietors from the borders, who 
were anxious to conceal their wealth in some large city. There were also Bourbonists, known by 
the white 'kerchief — the cockade would have been dangerous ; — and a host of adventurers, with a 
plentiful supply of rogues, sure of finding employment in their pecuHarcaUing. Hundreds of wound- 
ed too were on their way to the great hospital ; some' of the weary soldiers had stopped and rested 
their weapons by a crucifix, on the road side, and were surrounded by the country people ; amidst 
the clamor was heard the cheerful music of a guinguette, and refreshments of all kinds were offered 
in baskets by the peasant women, adorned with their many colored 'kerchiefs, and yet more by their 
dark eyes and olive cheeks. Soon the march was resumed, and as we drew nearer Toulouse, the 
umult and noise increased. The clouds rolled in dark and heavy masses over our heads ; the wind 
surged through the thick boughs of the trees, and covered us with whirling dust. 

We were on foot, and anxious to reach the city before the storm should burst onus. Accident had 
brought so many in company upon the road, we were to take a brief journey together, and each 
probably to forget his anxieties in a cup of wine at the end of it. Nothithstanding our haste to pass 
ihe swollen stream, I could not withdraw my attention from two men among the si range soldiers 
who accompanied us. One was a sturdy figure ; short gambados covered his legs U> the calf, and 
were fastened to the latchet of his shoes by small crosses ; the folds of linen that covered his breast 
were not remarkable for whiteness ; he wore a light blue jacket ornamented with tarnished lace, and 
a short red cloak, which yet had arr air of pretension, with all its poverty. This affectation of smart- 
ness was rendered more striking by the effect of a high, pointed, perforated hat, set jauntily over 
upon the right, and broad golden rings depending from each ear. His naturally brown complexiorr, 
darkened by the sun, his jet-black hair, the large Roman nose, between a pair of restless flashing 
eyes, were not unhandsome, though the countenance was marked by an expieasion of cunning and 

" Who is that 1" asked I, of a Frenchman near me. 

" A half-civilized Spaniard, a Navarrese, from the mountains, who lives by practising all sorts of 
juggling and imposition upon our Southrons, and gains no trifle by his pretensions as a quack doctor 
and conjurer; he sometimes also plays the spy for our army, and 'tis highly probable that he gets 
well paid for the same service by the English and his own countrymen. A Figaro for our modem 
tragedy, in which the merry fellow is called a rascal, in which the joke usually ends by poison and 
Hagger, instead of a marriage." 

" Ha ! ha! ha ! an apt definition !" 

" A true one, of our modern tragedy ; a comedy with melancholy personages, in which the mali- 
cious Harlequin struggles with the fool, till one or the other loses patience, and the worst handled 
atones with his life, A comedy, in which reason belongs only to the multitude, and the enthusiast 
is treated as a blockhead." 

"And who is that tall, slender person, who stoops so much over his handsome horse, and keeps 
Ills large eyes so constantly fixed on the ground." 

" One unfortunate, and yet too happy — a fit hero for the tragedy just mentioned. A young mil- 
lionaire, who would gladly give away his hundreds of thousands, could he get himself with honor 
out of the world, which is arr abomination to him." 

" So handsome, so young, and rich, and yet — a misanthrope 1" 

" You would, perhaps, be the same in his situation ; he is the only child of wealthy parents, and 
had but three passions in his nature: — an idolatrous affection for his mother, ambition for a soldier's 
fame, and devotion to his Emperor, and love for his foster-sister, a peasant girl, in the village we are 
approaching. Mark, how fearfully his heart was wounded through each of these cherished feelings. 
His mother eloped with a PoHsh officer, the very day he had with difficulty obtained from his father 


permission to follow the Imperial standard to Russia. Could he leave his father alone to join the 
army, perhaps to meet again his abandoned mother 1 He bore his grief in silence ; with bitter tears 
saw the troops depart, while he remained at home with his infirm parent. His love, his Louison, 
was now every thing to him. Deprived of the Epos, he devoted himself to the Idyl. 

" But his father was inexorably opposed to his union with a vinedresser's daughter. He had de- 
signed his only son, with all his wealth, for the daughter of a marshall, one of the new nobility. 
The lovers were constrained to meet clandestinely, and the poor maiden's reputation suffered thereby 
in the eyes of all their acquaintance. 

" Suddenly came the thunderbolt from the blue heavens — that Bulletin from Russia, demanding 
a fresh army from France. The canton furnished one hundred and thirty-four recruits : yonder pale 
youth drew the number one hundred and thirty-four, and Louison's brother the number one hundred 
and thirty-five. The youth hastened to Paris with letters from his father to a counsellor of state, 
and returned to his native place full of eagerness to join the army. The old man received him with 
smiles, all his comrades with anger and scorn ; for slander had been busy with his name. He was 
declared unfit to enter the service ; his foster brother took his place, and he was compelled to bear 
all this in silence, for fear of involving his father in unpleasant difficulties. Louison's joy at his re- 
turn was troubled by sorrow at the departure of her brother. As for her lover, he became a prey to 
deep melancholy. His substitute was obliged to go with the troops to Spain, but returned with con- 
tempt all the money and letters sent him by his rich foster brother. He also enjoined it upon his 
sister to have regard to her own good name, and break off all acquaintance with a dishonored man. 
Louison wept bitterly, but she could not obey at once the hard command ; and love at length obtain- 
ed the victory. She entreated the youth, however, to use all the influence his wealth procured him 
to bring about the release of her brother from his martial duty. Powerful as is the Emperor in the 
field, so in France is his image stamped on a round bit of gold. But neither gold nor Emperor can 
call the dead from their graves. The substitute, the brother of Louison, fell wounded into the hands 
of the Spaniards, and was reported dead. 

" The news drove the melancholy youth frantic. ' I have killed my friend and brother,' was his 
incessant exclamation ; and in imagination he strove with the ghost of the departed, who came to re- 
proach him. The haughty old father was obliged to entreat the poor maiden to come to his house, 
for her presence alone could soothe the frenzy of his unhappy son, or change his madness into tender 
and tearful melancholy. His visits to the vinedresser's house, too, served to divert his mind. Two 
or three times a week he rode thither, unattended by a domestic, taking caie of his horse himself, 
and dining at the inn, usually in sullen silence. Sometimes his attention was excited by the soldiers ; 
he would seek among them and eagerly examine the countenance of any who happened to bear 
number forty-one ; their, disappointed, would turn his horse away, wipe the tears from his eyes, and 
shuddering, murmur. ' 'Tis not he ! Bernard Prany will never return ; I have killed my brother !' " 

During this conversation the Spaniard had come near us, and seemed very attentive to the narra- 
tion — and visibly struck by the mention of the name of Bernard Prany. He looked as if about to 
address us ; hut shook his head doubtfully, snapped bis fingers, and throwing a glance at the pale 
rider, went off humming a tune, and was soon out of our sight. 

In a large hostelry on the road very near La Prouille, where more than six hundred years before, 
St. Dominic founded the cloister for Dominican nuns, without dreamingof the horrors his institution 
would spread over the world ; — in that old, gloomy hostelry, originally no doubt the lodge and hos- 
pital of La Prouille, sate more than sixty men at supper around the great table. At the upper end 
of the apartment, in a deep reverie, pale and motionless, his eyes fixed on the ground, neither eating 
nor drinking, nor taking interest in ought that passed, sate the youth I had seen riding the handsome 
horse ; chance placed us directly opposite him ; but there was no opportunity for conversation, where 
half a hundred Frenchmen were in an apartment together. The uproar was like a cataract in its 
continuity ; at least thirty different voices might be heard speaking in the same instant. 

Suddenly we heard the cry, " Ha ! Rodrigo Bannos ! Welcome to our Spaniard ! Where is the 
fellow ]" All eyes were turned towards the door, through which with mock solemnity entered the 
Spaniard. He rnade his way among the guests, nodding his head repeatedly, and greeting many 
with a friendly grasp ; took his place by the chimney piece, and began eating from his hand a piece 
of mutton with raw onions. 

" "Where have you been, Rodrigo ?" cried one. Before he could reply — another broke in with — 
" About profitable business?" 

" Only the devil now-adays drives a profitable business !" said the Spaniard coolly, without sus- 
pending his meal. 

" Well — you have brought somewhat to entertain us 1" 

" Empty pockets — if you want any juggling. Ha, brisk fellow — you have the cup in your hands 
again 1" 

" Will you drink f 

" Yes — when I have done eating — but only champagne or pure water." 

" Champagne !" roared a dozen voices at once. They rose, and the mirth and tumult increased. 
Only the pale youth gate motionless, his head resting on both hands. It had not escaped me, that 

202 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

at the first glance at Rodrigo he had shuddeied, and grown visibly paler. But no one noticed him,, 
for general attention was drawn to the new comer, 

" Kodrigo !" cried a cracked voice, " we shall not soon have so fine an opportunity as at present; 
bring us up a fev? handsome ghosts." 

" You are mad, man ; beauty belongs to the flesh." 

" A few charming Dominicans of those who sleep in the churchyard at La Prouille, with the pale- 
faces and eyes of fire." 

'» You are all fools, or full of wine; have patience, you will soon enough be side by side with the 
nuns. No more of ghosts and damsels; but I will show you some new conjurer's tricks. Bring 
cards here !" 

Amid approving shouts he began to exhibit several tricks with cards, which he did with much 
dexterity and skill. He made some draw three cards, and told their fortunes, or described the em- 
ployment of some absent friend or relative. Some of his predictions were very apt, for Bannos had 
all the cunning belonging to his profession. 

The silent youth, lifting up his head, seemed attentive to every word and motion of the Spaniard, 
while the latter appeared not to observe him. All at once, however, he went up to him, presented 
his pack of cards, and, while he fixed his flashing eyes full on those of the youth, said in a cheerful 
tone, but not without solemnity — " It is your turn, noble stranger ; draw three cards, and I will tell 
you what is presently to befall you. Many possess thousands, and know not what may happen to 
them the next moment." 

The youth mechanically drew the cards. The first was the ace of hearts, which he laid down on 
the table ; the others were the queen of diamonds and the ace of clubs. 

" By St. James — young man !" cried Rodrigo, after shufiling and examining the cards, and pausing 
a few moments; " you are more fortunate than all the rest ! Your father, at this moment, sits at 
home in his easy chair, reckoning Over his tTiousands, and negotiating for you, his only son, a mar- 
riage with the only daughter of one of the wealthiest men in the kingdom." 

" Biavo ! here's to the golden band !" cried many of the company, laughing. The pale youth 
sprang up, his brow crimson, clutched the Spaniard by the dress — and exclaimed — " you are a liar — 
a villain !" 

" Ha ! let go my jacket, and do not disarrange my cards. Is it my fault that you like Louison 
better than the other rich lady 1 " 

" Louison !" cried the stranger despairingly, and quitting his hold, rushed from the apartment. 

" You struck him to the heart, Rodrigo," said the cracked voice again. "" St. Jean ! had you lived 
in 1789, and prophesied to the people, there would have been some mischief undone, and some drops 
of blood the fewer shed." 

" And some fools the more !" added another of the company ; — and seveial voices cried — " Joli- 
coeur grows sentimental ! ha ! ha! ha ! more wine heie !" 

The uproar soon became so great among the intoxicated guests, that I was glad to make my es-. 
cape unnoticed. 

I sate on one of the garden terraces, and looked up towards the gloomy walls of La Prouille. I 
was not alone — for the six last centuries were with me — and we conversed as cordially as if we had 
drank our coflee every day together. Who can compare without emotion the years 1214 and 1814'? 
In the first all strength was put forth to support the tottering dominion of usurping Rome over 
christian Europe ; the last witnessed the efforts of despair to overthrow the giant of his age. The 
one was the day of monks and monasteries, of interdicts, and feudal power, and knightly combats, 
and the Inquisition and secret tribunals. The other, of steam-boats and steam-presses — of books, 
and a war with the pen as well as the sword ; a parody upon the past feudal time ; the last struggle 
of the old decayed, poetical aristocracy — with the aristocracy of intellect and of wealth, and the boast 
of popular freedom. 

I was roused from a very misanthropical reverie by a rustling below me. The Spaniard and the 
pale youth were engaged in earnest conversation. Neither had observed me. 

"You must — Rodrigo — by heaven, you must!" 

" Indeed, sir, it is beyond my power." 

" It is not ! I myself have laughed a thousand times at the idea of a spirit's re-visiting this world, 
and conversing with the living. But I now take shame foi my childish incredulity. I know well, 
such intercourse is possible; I call upon you to be mediator betwixt the dead and me !" 

" Let me go — you are ill." 

" Be my leech, then, and heal me. A thousand Napoleons are yours, if you show him to me — 
him — only him ! Bid him appear ; speak the word, which calls him out of the grave. Draw the 
circle in which he must rise to my view. He called me a coward ; I must tell him face to face, that 
I am none ! He must retract his words." 

"Ha! ha! ha! so you will challenge the ghost ? Have you your weapons with you 1 Be as- 
sured, arms are not needed in such company." 

" What should I do with armsl My old father will not permit me to use them. I have notbiug 
but gold^gold — even gold." 


" Ha — have you not love — the joy of love 1" 

" Of love ■? Louison has closed her door against me. I shall never see her more, unless I go to 
lead her to the altar. She has renounced me : her brother called me coward ; my father condemns 
me to misery. I must break his heart or betray my Louison, as I betrayed my Emperor !" 
" Be not foolish. Call you obedience to your father, treachery to the Emperor 1" 
" I have betrayed my country, whose sacred soil is profaned by foes, while I sit in safety, and ban- 
quet at home. Shame lests on me ; interminable shame ; therefore fortune turns her back upon me — 
therefore joy flies my embrace — therefore Louison renounces me — therefore my heart must 

break " 

" You must have blood let, young man ; your veins are too full !" 

" Ah ! my blood belongs to my country — to honor — to my Emperor-; — but I must let it tevel in my 
veins !'' Then, after a pause, he urged moie vehemently — " Callime up Bernard!" 
" Have patience, at least, till another day." 

'•' No — this day — at midnight — I must see him ; I must speak with him ; should I myself go down 
into the grave !" 

" You are too much agitated — such an interview demands calmness." 
" There is calmness only in the grave." 

" And are you fixed in this belief " 

" Fixed 1 there is nothing fixed in this world, save wretchedness, and my undying love !" 
" Come then ! Bernard shall appear to you. Come to me at midnight, to the garden pavilion, 
alone ; and mention to no one what I have said." 

Convinced that some deceit was to be practised upon the poor young stranger, I resolved to watch 
them, and avert the evil, if evil was intended towards him. Just before midnight I repaired to the 
pavilion, and was fortunate enough to discover a spot, where unseen, I could observe all that was 
gping on, and rush to his assistance, should he need my help. 

The window-shutters of the pavihon were closed, but a side door stood partly open. Opposite the 
door, a few steps distant , was a close arbor, within which I concealed myself. The night was mild, 
and a deep stillness reigned around me ; not a breeze was stirring ; — all things seemed wrapped in 
breathless slumber. There was one watcher, however ; I could see the poor youth walking restlessly 
up and down his chamber. I marked the outline of his noble features, every time he passed the 

Alas ! the misdeeds of the wicked too often disturb the repose of the guiltless ; wounding them as 
deeply as if upon them also the poisoned fangs of conscience had laid hold. 

Some wine stood on a table by his window ; he drank frequently, and with impatient gestures. 
Then he looked at his watch. Not yet midnight ! What torture ! He drank again — then paused 
and listened. Eleven and three-quarters struck hoarsely, from the dark oaken clock within the 
hostelry. Yet a quarter of an hour — O martyr of impatience ! Once more he raised the cup to his 
lips. He examined the priming of his pistols; shook his head mournfully, and placed the pistols in 
his bosom. He threw a rich mantle over his shoulders, and unconsciously let it slide off again. He 
opened the window. The fresh air seemed to revive him ; his eyes were raised toward heaven ; — 
his hands rested on the window frame ; he continued to gaze upward, as i f seeking out a path to the 
world beyond reach of the living. 

"There he stands — 'tis he !" suddenly whispered a female voice close to me. 
'• Yes — Louison — 'tis he !" answered the Spaniard, in a low tone. " Yet a few moments, and he 
will come down. Is Bernard in the pavilion — and ready 1" 
" Yes ! Oh, that all were over !" 

" Be rational, Louison ! You behave as if aught else were to happenbut what you most wish !" 
" But if all should fail — if even this scene should not restore the fair light of reason to his soul 1" 
" In such a case, all is no worse than it was before." 

" Alas ! you know not what the worst might be. You love him not, and do not know him thorough- 
ly. I see his whole heart, while I look into my own. I myself had nearly perished in the moment 
when his father's change of purpose was made known to me, and I saw my dearest wishes on the 
eve of fulfilment." 

" We must risk something ; the result is in the hands of Providence. You know the physician's 
assurance, that by such means only, by a powerful shock could reason be restored to her full empire, 
and the gloomy phantoms that so long have haunted him dispelled. You know, too, what has been 

done with a view to this " 

"Ah! me!" 

" Hush — hush — and come with me !" 

The clock in the hostelry struck twelve. In an instant the youth disappeared from the window, 
and the light in his chamber was extinguished. The young girl and the Spaniard also vanished, 
without my observing whither they went. Night and silence were again around me. My heart throbbed 
with anxious expectation. 

The latticed door of the garden creaked on its hinges, and the sand cracked beneath the tread of 
hastening feet. A faint hght was burning in the pavilion, which threw its pale beam on the stranger 

204 burton's gentleman s magazine. 

youth, approaching with his weapons under his arm. The door of the pavihon closed against him 
lightl}', as if moved by uneaithly hands. All was dark again without. 

" Are you here, Leon Belanger 1" whispered the Spaniard. 

" I am !" was the reply. 

" 'Tis well ; you are on the spot ; stand still ; keep silence, and put on this monk's frock and cowl ; 
that your worldly habiliments frighten not the ghost. But what do you with weapons V 

" I must have satisfaction," replied the youth, gloomily ; " but he shall have the choice of weapons ; 
I have brought swords and pistols." 

" Excellent ! yes ; the spirit must give you satisfaction. But till he appears, you must have no 
metal about your person. It will render the spells ineffectual. Lay them aside. Right ; now your 
purse. Is it done 1" 

'•Yes — what more is necessary 1" 

" Silence and patience, whatever you may see and hear." 

The conjurer then began, half singing, half murmuring, to repeat words in an unknown tongue, 
walking round the youth with earnest and mysterious gesticulation. As he passed, nine blue flames 
sprang from the ground in the circle, and nine columns of dense smoke rose upwards. Rodrigo wore 
a long dark frock, and a dark cap covered his head. The youth on the other hand was wrapped in 
a white robe ; his brow was fevered ; his keen eyes were fixed intently on the door of the pavilion, 
his arms crossed on his breast. As the ninth flame rose, the conjurer raised both hands to his waist, 
and on his broad girdle streamed out strange figures and characters in phosphoric brilliance, and a 
burning star shone on his breast. He sank on his knee and repeated the form of adjuration, calling 
on the dead to awake. 

When the verses were ended, a rusthng was heard, and the folding doors flew open. A flood of 
light poured out ; clouds of soft fragrance floated around them, and reflected on their purple edges the 
brightness with which the walls within shone. Both figures were distinctly visible in the strange 
light; the Spaniard in his daik dress, and the tall, white, spectral figure of the young stranger. I 
was so overpowered by the sui prise, that though I was sensible of the trick, my eyes were nearly 
blinded ; and I stood breathless and disconcerted, as if the mysteries of the grave were really about 
to be revealed. 

The conjurer resumed his metrical chant; and summoned Bernard Prany to appear. Leon re- 
peated the words after him in a stern and solemn tone. The flames vanished from the circle, the 
star on Rodrigo's breast grew paler ; the bright characters on his girdle faded, and at the end it was 
quite dark within and without. At this moment the note of an owl was heard from the roof of the 
building ; his wild hoarse scream seemed to me to utter a warning ! 

I heard a quick gliding step close beside me, among the rosebushes, which staitled me so that I 
was near betraying myself by an involuntary outcry. It was Louison, the expectant, anxious, trembling, 
Louison. How her heart beat, how her bosom heaved with her hurried breathing — how eagerly did 
she bend forward — her straining eyes fixed only upon her lover ! 

There was another burst of light ; and on the threshhold of the pavilion stood a young French 
soldier, with a red scar across his pale forehead. His eyes sought the poor Leon, who stood gazing 
at him wildly, in vain endeavoring to collect his strength to speak. At length the spell was broken. 
" Bernard !" faltered he, and covered his face with both hands, in unspeakable emotion. " Leon !" 
answered the soldier, much moved ; but a sign from the conjurer checked the words on his lips, and 
he remained silent. 

" You called me a villain, Bernard," continued Leon — " a coward — while you yet breathed the 
breath of life. Bernard ! I am no coward ! Spirit of my brother — I demand of you — I conjure 
you — look in my heart — see if one drop of cowardice runs in my veins ! Bernard ! I — wo is me ! — 
Louison — Louison " 

He staggered, unable to support himself; Louison gave a scream, and rushed to his side ; Bernard 
came down to his assistance. Before they could reach him, he fell, and his forehead struck the cold 

An old man, whom I had not before observed, rushed out from the bushes behind the young girl. 
He pushed the others aside, and with a piercing cry — " Leon! my son !" threw himself on his knees, 
and lifting up the head of the lifeless youth, supported him in his arms. " Awake, rise, my son !" 
he cried again. " Come hither, Louison ! my daughter ! Leon ! she is yours; she loves you ! dost 
hear, Leon 1 She is yours — and Bernard has to crave your forgiveness ! He lives — he is your 
brother ! Help — help ! Leon ! your father calls — awake !" 

But Leon awaked not. 

" Dead !" shrieked the maiden, and her heart broke with that word. " I — renounced — I have 
killed him !" And she sank breathless upon the corpse. 


On the the third day after, they laid the two lovers side by side, in the same cold grave, and no- 
thing remained to the rich, haughty father, of his only son, save agonizing remembrance, and a too 
late remorse. 


A T ALE . 


fFrom the Gift for 1840,J 

what say of it ? what say of Conscience grim. 

That spectre in my path ? — Chamber laine's PItarronida. 

Let me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need 
not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn, for 
the horror, for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the in- 
dignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy 1 Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned ! To 
the earth art thou not for ever dead 1 to its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations 1 and a 
cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven 1 

I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years of unspeakable misery, 
and unpardonable crime. This epoch — these later years — took unto themselves a sadden elevation 
in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign. Men usually grow base by de- 
grees. From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. I shrouded my nakedness 
in triple guilt. From comparatively tiivial wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more 
than the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance, what one event brought this evil thing to 
pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches ; and the shadow which foreruns him has 
thrown a softening influence over ray spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for the 
sympathy — I had nearly said for the pity — of my fellow-men. I would fain have them believe that 
I have been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I would wish 
them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis oi fatality amid a wilder- 
ness of error. I would have them allow — what they cannot refrain from allowing — that, although 
temptation may have etewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before — cen- 
tainly, never thus fell. And therefore has he never thus suffered. Have I not indeed been living in 
a dream 1 And am I not now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all 
sublunary visions 1 

I am come of a race whose imaginative and easily excitable temperament has at all times rendered 
them remarkable; and, in my earliest infancy, I gave evidence of having fully inherited the family 
character. As I advanced in years it was more strongly developed ; becoming, for many reasons, a 
cause of serious disquietude to ray friends, and of positive injury to myself. I grew self-willed, ad- 
dicted to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the most ungovernable passions. Weak-minded, and 
beset with constitutional infirmities akin to my own, my parents could do but little to check the evil 
propensities which distinguished me. Some feeble and ill-directed efforts resulted in complete failure 
on their part, and of course, in total triumph on mine. Thenceforward ray voice was a household 
law ; and at an age when few children have abandoned their leading-strings, I was left to the guidance 
of my own will, and became, in all but name, the master of my own actions. 

My earliest recollections of a school-life are connected with a large, rambling, cottage-built, and 
somewhat decayed building in a misty-looking village of England, where weie a vast number of 
gigantic and gnarled trees, and where all the houses were excessively ancient and inordinately tall. 
In truth, it was a dream-like and spirit-soothing place, that venerable old town. At this moment, 
in fancy, I feel the refreshing chilliness of its deeply-shadowed avenues, inhale the fragrance of its 
thousand shrubberies, and thrill anew with undefinable delight, at the deep, hollow note of the 
chuich-bell, breaking each hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon the stillness of the dusky atmos- 
phere in which the old, fretted, Gothic steeple lay imbedded and asleep. 

It gives me, perhaps, as much of pleasure as I can now in any manner experience, to dwell upon 

206 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

minute recollections of the school and its concerns. Steeped in misery as I am — misery, alas ! only 
too real — I shall be pardoned for seeking relief, however slight and temporary, in the weakness of a 
few rambling details. These, moreover, utterly trivial, and even ridiculous in themselves, assume, 
to my fancy, adventitious importance as connected with a period and a locaUty, when and where I 
recognise the first ambiguous monitions of the destiny which afterwards so fully overshadowed me. 
Let me then remember. 

The house, I have said, was old, irregular, and cottage-built. The grounds were extensive, and 
an enormously high and solid brick wall, topped with a bed of mortar and broken glass, encompassed 
the whole. This prison-hke rampart formed the limit of our domain ; beyond it we saw but thrice 
a week — once every Saturday afternoon, when, attended by two ushers, we were permitted to take 
brief walks in a body through some of the neighboring fields — and twice during Sunday, when we 
were paraded in the same formal manner to the morning and evening service in the one church of 
the village. Of this church the principal of our school was pastor. With how deep a spirit of wonder 
and perplexity was I wont to regard him from our remote pew in the galler}', as, with step solemn 
and slow, he ascended the pulpit ! This reverend man, with countenance so demurely benign, with 
robes so glossy and so clerically flowing, with wig so minutely powdered, so rigid and so vast — 
could this be he who of late, with som- visage, and in snuffy habUiments, administered, ferule in hand, 
the Draconian laws of the academy? Oh, gigantic paradox too utterly monstrous for solution ! 

At an angle of the ponderous wall frowned a more ponderous gate. It was riveted and studded 
with iron bolts, and surmounted with jagged iron spikes. What impressions of deep awe it inspired ! 
It was never opened save for the three periodical egressions and ingressions already mentioned ; then, 
in every creak of its mighty hinges we found a plentitude of mystery, a world of matter for solemn 
remark, or for far more solemn meditation. 

The extensive enclosure was irregular in form, having many capacious recesses. Of these, three 
or four of the largest constituted the play-ground. It was level, and covered with fine hard gravel. 
I well remember it had no trees, nor benches, nor any thing similar within it. Of course it was in 
the rear of the house. In front lay a small parterre, planted with box and other shrubs ; but through 
this sacred division we passed only upon rare occasions indeed, such as a first advent to school or 
final departure thence, or perhaps, when a parent or friend having called for us, v/e joyfully took 
our way home for the Christmas or Midsummer holydays. 

But the house — how quaint an old building was this! — to me how veritably a palace of enchant- 
ment ! There was really no end to its windings, to its incomprehensible sub-divisions. It was im- 
possible, at any given time, to say with certainty upon which of its two stories one happened to be. 
From each room to every other there were sure to be found three or four steps either in ascent or 
descent. Then the lateral branches were innumerable — inconceivable — and so returning in upon 
themselves, that oui most exact ideas in regard to the whole mansion were not very far different 
■from those with which we pondered upon infinity. During tlie five years of my residence here I was 
never able to ascertain with precision, in what remote locality lay the little sleeping apartment as- 
signed to myself and some eighteen or twenty other scholars. 

The school-room was the largest in the house — I could not help thinking in the world. It was 
very long, narrow, and dismally low, with pointed Gothic windows and a ceiling of oak. In a re- 
mote and terror-inspiring angle was a square enclosure of eight or ten feet, comprising the sanctum, 
" during hours," of our principal, the Reverend Dr. Bransby. It was a solid structure, with massy 
door, sooner thaVi open which in the absence of "the Dominie," we would all have willingly perish- 
ed by the pei7ie forte et dure. In other angles were two other similar boxes, far less reverenced, in- 
deed, but still greatly matters of awe. One of these was the pulpit of" the classical" usher, one of 
the " English and mathematical." Interspersed about the room, crossing and recrossing in endless 
irregularity, were innumerable benches and desks, black, ancient, and time-worn, piled desperately 
with much-bethumbed books, and so heseamed with initial letters, names at full length, meaningless 
gashes, grotesque figures, and other multiplied efforts of the knife, as to have entirely lost what little 
of original form might have been their portion in days long departed. A huge bucket with water 
stood at one extremity of the room, and a clock of stupendous dimensions at the other. 

Encompassed by the massy walls of this venerable academy Ipassed, yet not in tedium or disgust, 
the years of the third lustrum of my life. The teeming brain of childhood requires no external world 
of incident to occupy or amuse it, and the apparently dismal monotony of a school was replete with 
more intense excitement than my riper youth has derived from luxury, or ray full manhood from 
Clime, Yet I must believe that my first mental developement had in it much of the uncommon, 
even much of the outre. Upon mankind at large the events of very early existence rarely leave in 
mature age any definite impression. All is gray shadow — a weak and irregular remembrance — an 
indistinct regathering of feeble pleasures and phantasmagoric pains. With me this is not so. In 
childhood I must have felt with the energy of a man what I now find stamped upon memory in lines 
as vivid, as deep, and as durable as the exergues of the Carthaginian medals. 

Yet in fact — in the fact of the world's view — how little was there to remember ! The morning's 
awakening, the nightly summons to bed ; the connings, the recitations ; the periodical half-holidays 
and perambulations ; the play-ground, with its broils, its pastimes, its intrigues — these, by a raentil 


sorcery long forgotten, were made to involve a wilderness of sensation, a world of rich incidi nt, an 
u)iiverse of varied emotion, of excitement the most passionate and spirit-stirring. " Oh, le bon temps, 
que ce siecle de fer .'" 

In truth, the ardency, the enthusiasm, and the imperiousness of my disposition soon rendered me 
a marked character among my schoolmates, and by slow but natural gradations, gave me an ascen- 
dency over all not greatly older than myself— over all with one single exception. This exception 
was found in the person of a scholar, who although no relation, bore {lie same Christian and sur- 
name as myself — a circumstance, in fact, little remarkable, for, notwithstanding a noble descent, 
mine was one of those every-day appellations which se<;m, by prescriptive right, to have been, time 
out of mind, the common property of the mob. In this narrative I have therefore designated myself 
as William Wilson — a fictitious title not very dissimilar to the real. My namesake alone, of those 
who in school phiaseolegy constituted " our set," presumed to compete with me in the studies of the 
class, in the spoi ts and broils of the pla^'-ground — to refuse implicit belief in my assertions, and sub- 
mission to my will — indeed to interfere with my arbitrary dictation in any respect whatsoever. If 
there be on earth a supreme and unqualified despotism, it is the despotism of a master mind in boy- 
hood over the less energetic spirits of its companions. 

Wilson's rebellion was to me a source of the greatest embarra-ssrnent-^the more so as, in spite of 
the bravado with which in public I made a point of treating him and his pretensions, I secretly fglt 
that I feared him, and could not help thinking the equality Vv-hich he maintained so easily with my- 
self, a proof of his true superiority, since not to be overcome cost me a perpetual struggle. Yet this 
sijperiority — even this equality — was in truth acknowledged by no one but myself; our associates, 
by some unaccountable blindness, seemed not even to suspect it. Indeed, his competition, his re- 
sistance, and especially his impertinent and dogged interference with my purposes, were not more 
pointed than private. He appeared to be utterly destitute alike of the ambition which urged, and of 
the passionate energy of mind which enabled me to excel. In his rivalry he might have been s.iip- 
pogcd actuated solely by a whimsical desire to thwart, astonish, or mortify myself; although there 
were times when I could not help obaervifig, with a feeling made up of wonder, abasement, and pique, 
that he mingled with his injuries, his insults, or his contradictions, a certain most inappropriate, and 
ass.uredly roost unwelcome affectionateness of manner. I could only conceive this singular beha- 
viour to arise from a consummate self-conceit assuming the vulgar airs of patronage and protection. 
Perhaps it was this latter trait in Wilson's conduct, conjoined with our identity of name, and the 
mere accident of our having entered the school upon the same day, which set afloat the notion that 
we were brothers, among the senior classes in the acfidemy. These do not usually inquire with 
much strictness into the affairs of their juniors. I have before said, or should have said, that Wilson 
w^s not, in the most, remote degree, connected with my family. But assuredly if we had been 
brothers we must ha^e heeri twins, for, after leaving Dr. Bransby's, I casually learned that my name- 
sake — a somewhat remarkable coincidence — was born on the niireteenth of January, 1811-^-and this 
is precisely the day of my own nativity. 

It may seem strange that in spite of the continual anxiety occasioned me by the rivalry of Wilson, 
aQd his intolerable spirit of contradiction, I could not bring myself to hate him altogether. We had, 
to be sure, nearly every day a quarrel, in which, yielding me publicly the palm of victory, he, in 
sQine manner, contrived to make me feel that it was he who had deserved it; yet a sense of pride 
ii.pon my part, aiid a veritable dignity upon his own, kept us always upon what are called "speaking 
terms," while there were many points of strong congeniality in our tempers, operating to awake in 
rne a sentiment which our position alone, perhaps, prevented from ripening into fiiendship. It is 
difficult, indeed, to define, or even to describe, my real feelings towards him. They were forrned of 
a, heterogeneous mixture — some petulant animosity, which was not yet hatred, some esteerh, more 
respect, much fear, with a world of uneasy curiosity. To the moralist fully acquainted with the 
njtinute spirings of human action, it will be unnecessary to say, in addition, that Wilson and myself 
were the most inseparable of companions. 

It was no doubt the anomalous state of affairs existing between us which turned all my attacks 
upon him, (and they were many, either open or covert) into the channel of banter or practical joke 
(giving pain while assuming the aspect of mere fun) rather than into that of a more serious and de- 
termined hostility. But my endeavors on this head were by no means uniformly successful, even 
when my plans were the most wittily concocted ; for my namesake had much about him, in character, 
of that unassuming and quiet austerity which, while enjoying the poignancy of its own jokes, has 
no heel of Achilles in itself, and absolutely refuses to be laughed at. I could find, indeed, but one 
vulnerable point, and that, lying in a personal peculiarity arising, perhaps, from constitutional disease, 
would have been spared by any antagonist less at his wit's end than myself — my rival had a weak- 
ness in the faucial or guttural organs which precluded liim from raising his voice at any time above 
a very low whisper. Of this defect I did not fail to take what poor advantage lay in my power. 

Wilson's retaliations in kind were many, and there was one form of his practical wit that disturbed 

me beyond measure. How his sagacity first discovered at all that so petty a thing would vex me is 

a question I never could solve — but, having discovered, he habitually practised the annoyance. I 

l^ad always felt aversion to my uncourtly patronymic, and its very common, if not plefjpian, prae- 

TOt. V. — HO. IT. I 2 

208 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

nomen. The words were venom in my ears ; and when, upon the day of my arrival, a second 
"William Wilson came also to the academy, I felt angry with him for bearing the name, and doubly 
disgusted with the name because a stranger bore it, who would be the cause of its twofold repetition, 
who would be constantly in my presence, and whose concerns, in the ordinary routine of the school 
business, must, inevitably, on account of the detestable coincidence, be often confounded with my 

The feeUng of vexation thus engendered grew stronger with every circu mstance tending to show 
resemblance, moral or physical, between my rival and myself. I had not then discovered the re- 
markable fact that we were of the same age ; but I saw that we were of the same height, and I per- 
ceived that we were not altogether unlike in general contour of person and outline of feature. I was 
galled, too, by the rumor touching a relationship which had grown current in the upper forms. In 
a word, nothing could more seriously disturb me, (although I scrupulously concealed such disturb- 
ance,) than any allusion to a similarity of mind, person, or condition existing between us. But, in 
truth, I had no reason to believe that (with the exception of the matter of relationship, and in the 
case of Wilson himself,) this similarity had ever been made a subject of comment, oi even observed 
at all by our school-fellows. That he observed it in all its bearings, and as fixedly as I, was appa- 
rent, but that he could discover in such circumstances so fruitful a field of annoyance for myself can 
only be attributed, as I said before, to his more than ordinary penetration. 

His cue, which was to perfect an imitation of myself, lay both in words and in actions ; and most 
admirably did he play his part. My dress it was an easy matter to copy ; my gait and general man- 
ner, were, without difficulty, appropriated ; in spite of his constitutional defect, even my voice did 
not escape him. My louder tones were, of course, unattempted, but then the key, it was identical ; 
and his singular whisper, it grew the very echo of my own. 

How greatly this most exquisite portraiture harassed me, (for it could not justly be termed a ca- 
ricature,) I will not now venture to describe. I had but one consolation — in the fact that the imita- 
tion, apparently, was noticed by myself alone, and that I had to endure only the knowing and 
strangely sarcastic smiles of my namesake himself. Satisfied with having produced in my bosom 
the intended effect, he seemed to chuckle in secret over the sting he had inflicted, and was charac- 
teristically disregardful of the public applause which the success of his witty endeavors might have 
so easily elicited. That the school, indeed, did not feel his design, perceive its accomplishment, and 
participate in his sneer, was, for many anxious months, a riddle I could not resolve. Perhaps the 
gradation of his copy rendered it not so readily perceptible, or, more possibly I owed my security to 
the masterly air of the copyist, who, disdaining the letter, which in a painting is all the obtuse can 
see, gave but the full spirit of his original for my individual contemplation and chagrin. 

I have already more than once spoken of the disgusting air of patronage which he assumed to- 
wards me, and of his frequent officious interference with my will. This interference often took the 
ungracious character of advice ; advice not openly given, but hinted or insinuated. I received it 
with a repugnance which gained strength as I grew in years. Yet, at this distant day, let me do 
Mm the simple justice to acknowledge that I can recall no occasion when the suggestions of my rival 
■were on the side of those eriors or follies so usual to his immature age, and seeming inexperience ; 
that his moral sense, at least, if not his general talents and worldly wisdom, was far keener than my 
own ; and that I might, to-day, have been a better, and thus a happier man, had I more seldom re- 
jected the counsels embodied in those meaning whispers which I then but too cordially hated, and 
too bitterly derided. 

As it was, I at length grew restive in the extreme, under his distasteful supervision, and daily 
resented more and more openly what I considered his intolerable arrogance. I have said that, in 
the first years of our connexion as school-mates, my feelings in regard to him might have been easily 
ripened into friendship ; but, in the latter months of my residence at the academy, although the in- 
trusion of his ordinary manner had, beyond doubt, in some measure, abated, my sentiments, in nearly 
similar proportion, partook very much of positive hatred. Upon one occasion he saw this, I think, 
and afterwards avoided, or made a show of avoiding me. 

It was about the same period, if I remember aright, that, in an altercation of violence with him, 
in which he was more than usually thrown off his guard, and spoke and acted with an openness of 
demeanor rather foreign to his nature, I discovered, or fancied I discovered, in his accent, his air, and 
general appearance, a something which first startled, and then deeply interested me, by bringing 
to mind dim visions of my earliest infancy — wild, confused and thronging memories of a time when 
memory herself was yet unborn. I cannot better describe the sensation which oppressed me than 
by saying that I could with difficulty shake off the belief that myself and the being who stood before 
jne had been acquainted at some epoch very long ago ; some point of the past even infinitely remote. 
The delusion, however, faded rapidly as it came ; and I mention it at all but to define the day of the 
last conversation I there held with my singular namesake. , 

The huge old house, with its countless subdivisions, had several enormously large chambers com- 
municating with each other, where slept the greater number of the students. There were, however, 
as must necessaiily happen in a building so awkwardly planned, many little nooks or recesses, the 
«dds and ends of the structure; and these the economic ingenuity of Dr. Bransby had also fitted up 


as dormitories — although, being the merest closets, they were capable of accommoilating only a single 
individual. One of these small apaitments was occupied by Wilson. 

It was upon a gloomy and tempestuous night of an early autumn, about the close of my fifth year 
at the school, and immediately after the altercation just mentioned, that, finding every one wrapped 
in sleep, I aiosc from bed, and, lamp in hand, stole through a wilderness of narrow passages from 
ray own bed-room to that of my rival. I had been long plotting one of those ill-natured pieces of 
practical wit at his expense in which I had hitherto been so uniformly unsuccessful. It was my in- 
tention, now, to put my scheme in operation, and I leso'ved to make him feel the whole extent of 
the malice with which I was imbued. Having reached his closet, I noiselessly entered, leaving the 
lamp with a shade over it, on the outside. I advanced a step, and listened to the sound of his tran- 
quil breathing. Assured of his being asleep, I returned, took the light, and with it again approach- 
ed the bed. Close curtains v/ere around it, which, in the prosecution of my plan, I slowly and quietly 
withdrew, when the bright rays fell vividly upon the sleeper, and my eyes, at the same moment, upon 
his countenance. I looked, and a numbness, an iciness of feeling instantly pervaded my frame. My 
breast heaved, my knees tottered, my whole spirit became possessed with an objectless yet intolerable 
honor. Gasping for breath, I lowered the lamp in still nearer proximity to the face. Were these — 
these the lineaments of William Wilson 1 I saw, indeed, that they were his, but I shook as with a 
fit of the ague in fancying they were not. What was there about them to confound me in this 
manner 1 I gazed — while my brain reeled with a multitude of incoherent thoughts. Not thus he 
appeared — assuredly not thus — in the vivacity of his waking hours. The same name ; the same 
contour of person; the same day of arrival at the academy ! And then his dogged and meaningless 
imitation of my gait, my voice, my habits, and my manner ! Was it, in truth, within the bounds of 
human possibility that what I now luitnessed was the result of the habitual practice of this sarcastic 
imitation! Awe-stricken, and with a creeping shudder, I extinguished the lamp, passed silently 
from the chamber, and left, at once, the halls of that old academy, never to enter them again. 

After a lapse of some months, spent at home in mere idleness, I found myself a student at Eton. 
The brief interval had been sufficient to enfeeble my remembrance of the events at Dr. Bransby's, or 
at least, to effect a material change in the nature of the feelings with which I remembered them. 
The truth — the tragedy — of the drama was no more. I could now find room to doubt the evidence 
of my senses ; and seldom called up the subject at all but with wonder at the extent of human credu- 
lity, and a smile at the vivid force of the imagination which I hereditarily possessed. Neither was 
this species of scepticism likely to be diminished by the character of the life I led at Eton. The 
■vortex of thoughtless folly into which I there so immediately and so recklessly plunged, washed away 
all but the froth of my past hours — engulfed, at once, every solid or serious impression, and left to 
memory only the veriest levities of a former existence. 

I do not wish, however, to trace the course of my miserable profligacy here — a profligacy which 
set at defiance the laws, while it eluded the vigilance of the institution. Three years of folly, passed 
without profit, had but given me rooted habits of vice, and added, in a somewhat unusal degree, to 
my bodily stature, when, after a week of soulless dissipation, I invited a small party of the most dis- 
solute students to a secret carousal in my chamber. We met at a late hour of the night, for our 
debaucheries were to be faithfully protracted until morning. The wine flowed freely, and there were 
not wanting other, perhaps more dangerous, seductions ; so that the gray dawn had already faintly 
appeared in the east, while our dehrious extravagance was at its height. Madly flushed with cards 
and intoxication, I was in the act of insisting upon a toast of more than intolerable profanity, when 
my attention was suddenly diverted by the violent, although partial unclosing of the door of the 
apartment, and by the eager voice from without of a servant. He said that some person, apparently 
in great haste, demanded to speak with me in the hall. 

W^ildly excited with the potent Vin de Barac, the unexpected interruption rather delighted than 
surprised me. I staggered forward at once, and a few steps brought me to the vestibule of the build- 
ing. In this low and small room there hung no lamp ; and now no light at all was admitted, save 
that of the exceedingly feeble dawn which made its way through a semicircular window. As I put 
my foot over the thrcshhold I became aware of the figure of a youth about my own height, and (what 
then peculiarly struck my mad fancy) habited in a white cassimere morning frock, cut in the novel 
fashion of the one I myself wore at the moment. This the faint light enabled me tc perceive — but 
the features of his face I could not distinguish. Immediately upon my entering he strode hurriedly 
up to me, and, seizing me by the arm with a gestuie of petulant impatience, whispered the words 
" William Wilson I" in my ear. I grew perfectly sober in an instant. 

There was that in the manner of the stranger, and in the tremulous shake of his uplifted finger, 
as he held it between my eyes and the light, which filled me with unqualified amazement — but it 
was not this which had so violently moved me. It was the pregnancy of solemn admonition in the 
singular, low, hissing utterance ; and, above all, it was the character, the tone, the key, of those few, 
simple, and familiar, yet whispered, syllables, which came with a thousand thronging memories of 
by-gone days, and struck upon my soul with the shock of a galvanic battery. Ere I could recovei 
the use of my senses he was gone. 

Although this event failed not of a vivid effect upon mv disordered imagination, yet was it evanes- 

210 burton's gentleman's magazine, 

cent as vivid. For some weeks, indeed, I busied myself in earnest inquiry, or was wrapped in a cloud 
of morbid speculation. I did not pretend to disguise from my perception the identity of the singular 
individual who thus perseveiingly interfered with my affairs, and haiassed me with his insinuated 
counsel. But who and what was this Wilson 1 — and whence came hel — and what were his pur- 
poses 1 Upon neither of these points could I be satisfted — merely ascertaining, in regard to him, 
that a sudden accident in his family had caused his removal from Dr. Bransby's Academy on the 
afternoon of the day in which I myself had eloped. But in a brief period I ceased to think upon the 
subject ; ray attention being all absorbed in a contemplated departure for Oxford. Thither I soon 
went; the uncalculating vanity of my parents furnishing me with an outfit, and annual establishment, 
which would enable me to indulge at will in the luxury already so dear to my heart — to vie in pro- 
fuseness of expenditure with the haughtiest heirs of the wealthiest earldoms in Great Britain, 

Excited by such appliances to vice, mj constitutional temperament broke forth with redoubled 
ardor, and I spurned even the common restraints of decency in the mad infatuation of my revels. 
But it were absurd to pause in the detail of my extravagance. Let it suffice, that among spend thrifts 
I out-heioded Herod, and that, giving name to a multitude of novel follies, I added no brief appendix 
to the long catalogue of vices then usual in the most dissolute university of Europe. 

It could hardly be credited, however, that I had, even here, so utterly fallen from the gentlemanly 
estate as to seek acquaintance with the vilest arts of the gambler by profession, and, having become 
an adept in his despicable science, to practise it habitually as a means of increasing my already 
enormous income at the expense of the weak-minded among my fellow-collegians. Such, neverthe- 
less, was the fact. And the very enormity of this offence against all manly and honorable sentiment 
proved, beyond doubt, the main, if not the sole reason of the impunity with which it was committed. 
Who, indeed, among my most abandoned associates, would not rather have disputed the clearest evi- 
dence of his senses, than have suspected of such courses the gay, the fiank, the generous W^illiam 
W^ilson — the noblest and most liberal commoner at Oxford — him whose follies (said his parasites) 
were but the follies of youth and unbridled fancy — whose errors but inimitable whim — whose darkest 
vice but a careless and dashing extravagance 1 

I had been now two years successfully busied in this way, when there came to the university a 
young parve7iu nobleman, Glendlnning — rich, said report, as Herodes Atticus — his riches, too, as 
easily acquired. I soon found him of weak intellect, and, of course, marked him as a fitting subject 
for my skill. I frequently engaged him in play, and contrived, with a gambler's usual art, to letliim 
win considerable sums, the more effectually to entangle Jiim in my snares. At length, my schemes 
being ripe, I met him (with the full intention that this meeting should be final and decisive) at the 
chambers of a fellow-commoner, (Mr. Preston,) equally intimate with both, but who, to do him 
justice, entertained not even a remote suspicion of my design. To give to this a better coloring, I 
had contrived to have assembled a party of some eight or ten, and was solicitously careful that the 
introduction of cards should appear accidental, and originate in the proposal of my contemplated 
dupe himself. To be brief upon a vile topic, none of the low finesse was omitted, so customary upon 
similar occasions that it is a just matter for wonder how any are still found so besotted as to fall its 

We had protracted our sitting far into the night, and I had at length effected the manceuvre of 
getting Glendinning as my sole antagonist. The game, too, was my favorite ecaite. The rest of 
the company, interested in the extent of our play, had abandoned their own cards, and were stand- 
ing around us as spectators. The parveiiii, who had been induced by my artifices in the early part 
of the evening to diink deeply, now shuffled, dealt, or played, with a wild nervousness of manner for 
which his intoxication, I thought, might partially, but could not altogether, account. In a very short 
period he had become my debtor to a large amount of money, when, having taken a long draught of 
port, he did precisely what I had been coolly anticipating, he proposed to double our already extravagant 
stakes. With a well feigned show of reluctance, and not until after my repeated refusal had seduced 
him into some angry words which gave a color of pique to my compliance, did I finally comply. 
The result, of course, did but prove how entirely the prey was in my toils — in less than a single 
hour he had quadrupled his debt. For some time his countenance had been losing the florid tinge 
lent it by the wine — but now, to my astonishment, I perceived that it had grown to a pallor truly 
fearful. I say to my astonishment. Glendinning had been represented to my eager inquiries as im- 
measurably wealthy ; and the suras which he had as yet lost, although in themselves vast, could not, 
I supposed, very seriously annoy, much less so violently affect him. That he was overcome by the 
wine just swallowed, was the idea which most readily presented itself; and, rather with a view to 
the preservation of my own character in the eyes of my associates, than from any less interested mo- 
tive, I was about to insist, peremptorily, upon a discontinuance of the play, when some expressions 
at my elbow from among the company, and an ejaculation evincing utter despair on the part of 
Glendinning, gave me to understand that I had effected his total ruin under circumstances which, 
rendering him an object for the pity of all, should have protected him from the ill oflSces even of a 

What now might have been my conduct it is difficult to say. The pitiable condition of my d^jpe 
had thrown an air of embarrassed gloom over all, and, for some moments, a profound and unbroken 


silence was maintained, during which I could not help feeling my cheeks tingle with the many 
burning glances of scorn or reproach cast upon me by the less abandoned of the party. I will even 
own that an intalcrible weight of anxiety was for a brief instant lifted from my bosom by the sud- 
den and extraordinary interruption which ensued. The wide, heavy, folding doors of the apartmen 
were all at once thrown open, to their full extent, with a vigorous and rushing impetuosity that ex- 
tinguished, as if by magic, every candle in the room. Their light, in dying, enabled us just to per- 
ceive that a stranger had entered of about my own height, and closely muffled in a cloak. The dark 
ness, however, was now total ; and we could only feel that he vvas standing in our midst. Before 
any one of us could recover from the extreme astonishment into which this rudeness had thrown all, 
wc heard the voice of the intruder. 

" Gentlemen" — he said, in a low, distinct, and never-to-be-forgotten whisper which thrilled to the 
very manow of my bones — " Gentlemen, I make no apology for this behavior, because in thus be- 
having I am but fuliilling a duty. You are, beyond doubt, uninformed of the true character of the 
person who has to-night won at ecarte a large sum of money from Lord Glcndinning. I will there- 
fore put you upon an expeditious and decisive plan of obtaining this very necessary information. 
Please to examine, at your leisure, the inner linings of the cufi" of his left sleeve, and the several little 
packages which may be found in the somewhat capacious pockets of his embroidered morning 

While he spoke, so profound was the stillness that one might have heard a pin dropping upon the 
floor. In ceasing, he at once departed, and as abruptly as he had entered. Can I — shall T describe 
my sensations ] — must I say that I felt all the horrors of the dammed ? Most assuredly I had but 
little time given for reflection. Many hands roughly seized me upon the spot, and lights were im- 
mediately reprocured. A search ensued. In the lining of my sleeve were found all of the court-cards 
essential in ecarte, and, in the pockets of my wrapper, a number of packs, fac-similes of those used 
at our sittings, with the single exception that mine were of the species called, iechmcaWj , arrondees ,- 
the honors being slightly convex at the ends, the lower cards slightly convex at the sides. In this 
disposition, the dupe who cuts, as customary, at the breadth of the pack, will invariably find that he 
cuts his antagonist an honor ; while the gambler, cutting at the length, will, as certainly, cut no- 
thing for his victim which may count in the records of the game. 

Any outrageous burst of indignation upon this shameful discovery would have affected me less 
than the silent contempt, or the sarcastic composure with which it was received. 

" Mr. Wilson," said our host, stooping to remove from beneath his feet an exceedingly luxurious 
cloak of rare furs, " Mr. Wilson, this is your property," (The weather was cold; and, upon quitting 
my own room, I had thrown a cloak over my dressing wrapper, putting it off upon reaching the scene 
of play.) " I presume it is supererogatory to seek here (eyeing the folds of the garment with a bitter 
smile,) for any farther evidence of your skill. Indeed we have had enough. You will see the ne- 
cessity, I hope, of quitting Oxford — at all events, of quitting, instantly, my chambers." 

Abased, humbled to the dust as I then was, it is probable that I should have resented this galling 
language by immediate personal violence, had not my whole attention been at the moment arrested, 
by a fact of the most startling character. The cloak which I had worn was of a rare description of 
fur ; how rare, how extravagantly costly, I shall not venture to say. Its fashion, too, was of my own 
fantastic invention; for I was fastidious, to a degree of absurd coxcombry, in matters of this frivolous 
nature. When, therefore, Mr. Preston reached me that which he had picked up upon the floor, and 
near the folding doors of the apartment, it was with an astonishment nearly bordering upon terror, 
that I perceived my own already hanging on my arm, (where I had no doubt unwittingly placed it,) 
and that the one presented me was but its exact counterpart in every, in even the minutest possible 
particular. The singular being who had so disastrously exposed me, had been muffled, I remember- 
ed, in a cloak ; and none had been worn at all by any of the members of our party with the excep- 
tion of myself. Retaining some presence of mind, I took the one offered me by Preston, placed it, 
unnoticed, over my own, left the apartment with a resolute scowl of defiance, and, next morning ere 
dawn of day, commenced a hurried journey from Oxford to the continent, in a perfect agony of horror 
and of shame. 

1 Jledin vain. My evil destiny pursued me as if in exultation, and proved, indeed, that the exer- 
cise of its mysterious dominion had as yet only begun. Sftarcely had I set foot in Paris ere I had 
fresh evidence of the detestable interest taken by this Wilson in my concerns. Years flew, while I 
experienced no relief. Villain ! — at Rome, with how untimely, yet with how spectral an officious- 
ness, stepped he in between me and my ambition ! At Vienna, too, at Berlin, and at Moscow ! 
Where, i» truth, had I not bitter cause to curse him within my heart 1 From his inscrutable tyianny 
did I at length flee, panic-stricken, as from a pestilence ; and to the very ends of the earth I fled in vain. 
And again, and again, in secret communion with my own spirit, would I demand the questions 
" Who is hel — whence came he 1 — and what are his objects V But no answer was there found. 
And now I scrutinized, with a minute scrutiny, the forms, and the methods, and the leading traits 
of his impertinent supervision. But even here there was very little upon which to base a conjecture. 
It was noticeable, indeed, that, in no one of the multiplied instances in which he bad of late crossed 
my path, had he so crossed it except to frustrate those schemes, or to disturb those actions, which, fully 

212 burton's gentleman's magazine. 

canied out, miglil ha'^'e resulted in bitter mischief. Pooi justification this, in truth, for an authority so im- 
periously assumed ! Poor indemnity for natural rights of self-agency so pertinaciously, so insultingly de- 
nied ! 

I had also been forced to notice that my tormentor, for a very long period of time, (while scrupu- 
lously and with miraculous dexterity maintaining his whim of an identity of apparel with myself,) 
had so contrived it, in the execution of his varied interference with my will, that I saw not, at any 
moment, the features of his face. . Be Wilson what he might, this, at least, was but the veriest of 
affectation, or of folly. Could, he for an instant, have supposed that, in my admonisher at Eton, in 
the destroyei of my honor at Oxford, in him who thwarted my ambition at Rome, my revenge in 
Paris, my passionate love at Naples, or what he falsely termed my avarice in Egypt, that in this, my 
arch-enemy and evil genius, I could fail to recognise the William Wilson of my schoolboy days, the 
namesake, the companion, the rival, the hated and dreaded rival at Dr. Bransby's ? Impossible ! — 
But let me hasten to the last eventful scene of the drama. 

Thus far I had succumbed supinely to this imperious domination. The sentiments of deep awe 
■with which I habitually Cegarded the elevated character, the majestic wisdom, the apparent omni- 
presence and omnipotence of W^ilson, added to a feeling of even terror, with which certain other 
traits in his nature and assumptions inspired me, had operated, hitherto, to impress me with an idea 
of my own utter weakness and helplessness, and to suggest an implicit, although bitterly reluctant 
submission to his arbitrary will. But, of late days, I had given myself up entirely to wine ; and its 
maddening influence upon my hereditary temper rendered me more and more impatient of control. 
I began to murmur, to hesitate, to resist. And was it only fancy which induced me to believe that, 
with the increase of my own firmness, that of my tormentor underwent a proportional diminution 1 
Be this as it may, I now began to feel the inspiration of a burning hope, and at length nurtured in 
my secret thoughts a stern and desperate resolution that I would submit no longei to be enslaved. 

It was at Rome, during the carnival of 18 — , that I attended a masquerade in the palazzo of the 
Neapolitan Duke Di Broglio. I had indulged more freely than usual in the excesses of the wine- 
table ; and now the suffocating atn;osphere of the crowded rooms irritated me beyond endurance. 
The difficulty, too, of forcing my way through the mazes of the company contributed not a little to 
the ruffling of my temper ; for I was anxiously seeking, let me not say with what unworthy motive, 
the young, the gay, the beautiful wife of the aged and doting Di Broglio. With a too unscrupulous 
confidence she had previously communicated to me the secret of the costume in which she would 
be habited, and now, having caught a glimpse of her person, I was hurrying to make my way into 
her presence. At this moment I felt alight hand placed upon my shoulder, and that ever-remembered, 
low, damnable whisper within my eai. 

In a perfect whirlwind of wrath, I turned at once upon him who had thus interrupted me, and 
seized him violently by the collar. He was attired, as I had expected, like myself; wearing a large 
Spanish cloak, and a mask of black silk which entirely covered his features. 

" Scoundrel!" I said, in a "oice husky with rage, while every syllable I uttered seemed as new 
fuel to my fury, " scoundrel ! impostor ! accursed villain I you shall not — you shall not dog me unto 
death ! Follow me, or I stab you where you stand," and I broke my way from the room into a small 
antechamber adjoining, dragging him unresistingly with me as I went. 

Upon entering, I thrust him furiously from me. He staggered against the wall, while I closed the 
door with an oath, and commanded him to draw. He hesitated but for an instant, then, with a 
slight sigh, drew in silence, and put himself upon his defence. 

The contest was brief indeed. I was frantic with every species of wild excitement, and felt within 
my single arm the energy and the power of a multitude. In a few seconds I forced him by sheer 
strength against the